


Household Objects

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:46:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange, malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human.  Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there to help, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket.  But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ziploc

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't take place anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Although this story falls loosely under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later. I know damn well Cas said his true form was big as the Chrysler building, but I'm gonna ignore that, or pretend the boy was exaggerating. The title is from an unfinished Pink Floyd project (don't sweat it, you have to be heavily into the Floyd to recognize it). It has no further relevance to the story, I just like Pink Floyd.
> 
> And lastly, since everyone asks, I'm 20,000 words into this, and think it'll be around 30K when it's complete. And, yeah, I know how it ends.

Title: Ziploc (Household Objects, Chapter 1 of ?)  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Author: tikistitch  
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, R overall  
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (we get there eventually); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death  
Warnings: Cursing, angel sex, ridiculous porn titles  
Word Count: 2100 (this chapter); ~30,000 total  
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange, malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there to help, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?  
Notes: This doesn't take place anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Although this story falls loosely under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later. I know damn well Cas said his true form was big as the Chrysler building, but I'm gonna ignore that, or pretend the boy was exaggerating. Lastly the title is from an unfinished Pink Floyd project (don't sweat it, you have to be heavily into the Floyd to recognize it).

 

_Here’s how our story begins: two boys in a hotel room. And a cardboard box full of Ziploc bags._

Bags in bags in bags.

Dean Winchester scowled. No, he glowered. He wished he had some of his buddy Castiel's angel mojo, so he could point his fingers and zap stuff. 

Or maybe laser beam eyes! Like a cool giant robot.

But no amount of wishing was going to stop his brother, Sam, from his anal retentive packing routine. Here’s how it went. First Sam would place some small object, like a sample size waxed cinnamon dental floss, or a half-squeezed tube of Crest toothpaste, into a Ziploc bag, and then he would flip it around and carefully press out the air before he sealed the bag. And then he would put that bag inside another bag and repeat the process.

As if the dental floss were poised to spring out and take over Sam's luggage! Dean sneered. 

Although given their lifestyle, Dean was forced to admit, it could happen. The floss monster!

Dean was saddened that his mental chastisement was proving (as it always proved) ineffective.

And then Sam ceased packing. And looked up.

Dean dared not hope.

Sam held up an empty cardboard Ziploc box. “I'm out of Ziplocs,” he observed.

“Yeah, I can see that,” sighed Dean.

Sam, still oblivious to Dean's awesome mental powers, grabbed the car keys. Dean's car keys.

“What are you doing, Sammy?”

“Going out to get more bags!” chirped Sam. 

“You're not.... You're not done packing yet?” pleaded Dean.

“Just a few more bags. And I'm almost outta floss. And then we can get outta here!” called Sam, who was already halfway out the door.

Dean listened to the door slam, to Sam's retreating footsteps, to the sure sound of Baby firing up and pulling out. 

He sat for a time on the threadbare twin bed, looking around the ratty motel room, and contemplating his brother's half packed luggage. He swore they would never get out of this fucking motel room until they were both eligible for social security.

He thought about switching on the television. Local news was always depressing, but maybe he could click around and find a Dr. Sexy, MD rerun somewhere. They always replayed that crap on TNT.

He was rummaging around for the remote control when the angel fell into his lap.

“Cas! Hey!” said Dean, steadying him, joyful to be in the presence of a being who was not obsessed with plastic zipper bags.

“Dean,” said Castiel weakly. 

“Hey, you OK?” asked Dean, helping Cas to sit on the bed next to him. He seemed kind of shaky and ill. “Are you sick or something?” Dean asked, his mind touching on some kind of exotic celestial flu.

“I am injured, Dean.” Cas wrapped his arms around himself, seeming to retreat deeply into the trench coat.

“Oh, crap! Well, Sam is gonna be back soon with more dental floss. And plastic bags,” Dean sighed.

“No.... No, it's not that. It's not my vessel.”

“It's not?”

“I have.... I have a broken wing, Dean,” Castiel whispered.

Dean arched an eyebrow, looking but of course not seeing what wasn't visible on Castiel's back, at least not in this plane of existence. The wing was part of the scary true form that made your eyeballs melt from just thinking about it. 

“You got a broken wing?” asked Dean. For some reason, he had the urge to go out and get a shoebox. A really big shoebox. And a heating pad. 

“Yes, Dean,” said Castiel. His voice had a strange catch to it. He sounded so forlorn.

Dean stifled the smile, wondering if he should call Sammy’s cell and ask him to pick up a heating pad. “You OK to get around and stuff?”

“My vessel is unharmed,” Castiel repeated. “But.... I can't fly. I....” Cas looked up at Dean, eyes red-rimmed. “I might never fly again.” Cas looked down, pushing back on the bed, crossing his legs underneath him, hugging his knees.

“Hey, you'll be fine,” said Dean, patting his friend on the back. “Is there anything we can do? I mean, are you in pain?” He thought about phoning Sam and asking him he needed to buy up every bottle of Ibuprophen in the drug store. Well, it would serve him right for the damn Ziplocs.

“No. I am not in pain. But I am weakened, in this state,” said Cas. “My grace … My 'angel mojo?' It's all going to heal my wing now. To _attempt_ to heal....” Here Cas got droopy again. “It's draining away all my magic. Almost all of it. And I can't fly, so I can’t get around like I usually do. I'm not sure what to do.” Now the eyes were on Dean, two big baby blue pools of concern. Was Cas actually crying? 

Dean smiled, suddenly realizing he could deal with this. That was a clear “Sammy has a scraped knee” look if he’d ever seen one. He decided to go all big brother on this angel guy's ass. He leaned over and grabbed a Kleenex from the bedside table. “No worries,” said handing the tissue to Cas, who looked confused. “Blow!” ordered Dean. Castiel obligingly sneezed into the Kleenex.

“You're OK. You just hang with us while you're on the mend. Seriously, this will be great! Sam's been getting on my fucking nerves with everything lately. And it's probably the same for him. It'll be cool. We'll have someone else around to break the tension.”

“Dean.” Dean looked down to see Cas was grabbing his knee, the angel's knuckles white as Sam's Crest toothpaste. “ _Please_ don't tell Sam about this!”

“Huh? Why not? We've both had broken bones before.”

“I shouldn't even have told you,” moped the angel. “You don't understand. This is....” Castiel lowered his voice. “This is a great shame,” he whispered.

“What? Aren't you angel guys soldiers?”

“We are soldiers for the Lord,” Castiel nodded solemnly, biting his lip. 

“Soldiers get wounded. That's what happens. And it's honorable! So, don't even,” said Dean.

“Don't even...? Don’t even _what_ , Dean?”

“Just concentrate on getting better!” Dean squinted at Castiel, a question forming. “Hey, how did you get hurt, anyway?”

Castiel sat back, looking thoughtful. “I … I don't know,” he finally admitted. 

“You hit your head?” asked Dean. “I mean, I assume your true form has a head, right?”

“This is very worrisome, Dean. I don’t remember. I just remember the feeling of falling, and a terrible pain in my wing, and that I needed to land somewhere....”

“Well, you did right, you came here.”

“Dean, you don't understand. I could be in danger! I could put you in danger! Something might be hunting me. And I'm too weak to protect you.” Cas was standing up now, still shaky on his feet. He tossed the tissue down onto the bed. “I shouldn't have come. I'm putting you in harm's way. I'm supposed to be _your_ guardian.”

Dean was up with him, hands on Castiel's shoulders. He reached over and retrieved the Kleenex. “Blow.”

“I already blew!”

“Blow again,” ordered Dean. “All right,” he said, as Castiel once again sniffled into the tissue. “Here's what happened. You just used your bit of last angel juice to zap yourself here....”

“Angel juice?” asked Castiel.

“You did right, you came to your family. We'll take care of you. Decision's been made.”

“But what if-”

“I just said, the decision's been made. Whatever happens, we'll deal.”

Castiel nodded, although he didn't look altogether happy.

“And right now, your job is to keep me from fucking strangling Sammy!” said Dean.

“Why would you do that, Dean?” asked Castiel, who stared at him in horror.

“He packs bags inside of bags!” said Dean, gesturing at Sam's luggage. He grabbed a plastic bag. “Look! Exhibit A! Why do you need two Ziplocs over the dental floss? Is it gonna jump out and strangle you?”

“Ziploc bags … have driven you to murderous intentions?” asked Castiel.

“Oh, and you know something else? You now what else? He whistles in the morning!” 

“Um. Yes?” said Castiel. Dean pointed, and Cas heard the sound of a tuneless whistle from outside the room.

The key rattled in the lock and Sam marched in, wielding a paper bag. Bags inside a paper bag, thought Dean.

“Oh, hey Cas!” said Sam.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Cas is gonna be hanging with us today,” said Dean.

“OK. Cool,” said Sam. “I just got a little bit more packing.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Cas. But the angel's presence, to Dean's relief, seemed to facilitate the packing process, at least this morning, and so Sam and Dean and Cas and Sam's many many many creepy plastic bags were soon down the motel stairs to the parking lot.

“Shotgun!” yelled Sam, grabbing the passenger seat.

“Sorry?” asked Castiel.

“You're supposed to yell, 'Shotgun!'” smiled Dean, patting Cas on the shoulder. “Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it.”

 

_And so that's how the story begins._

_Almost...._

 

There were two of them, sitting on the motel roof. 

One was big; the other, even bigger. 

The second one was actually causing the motel foundation to crack a little. The owner would find out about this in a few months time, and get stuck with a hefty repair bill.

The bigger one was sitting serenely, fat buddha style, tail neatly wrapped around his chubby, clawed legs.

His friend was more agitated, shifting position, irritably giving his wings a flap.

Fortunately, none of the motel residents could see the pair. Fortunately for the residents, as the two crouching beings were true formed angels, and would have caused the usual eye-melting, eardrum-bleeding, freaking out insanity true formed angels tend to sow.

“We let him go? Castiel?” fretted the flapping one, his feathers fluffing everywhere.

“Them's the orders,” rumbled his friend. Even for an angel he had a terribly deep and rumbly voice. More rumbly still than Darth Vader when he wakes up in the morning. 

“Shouldn't we smite him? Smite them all!” The agitated angel was a big fan of smiting.

“He is with the Winchesters,” explained his deep voiced pal. The very end of his tail switched slightly.

“The humans? Wenceslas?” asked the flapper, scratching his beak in confusion.

“Winchesters. Yes. We are not to reveal ourselves to humans yet. And most definitely not to any Winchesters.”

“What's wrong with smiting them? They are tiny. They would make a nice splat. A nice tidy splat. And Castiel is weak. So weak. We could yank his little wings off.”

“We will. In time. My friend.” And the deep voiced angel smiled a very nasty smile. “We will finish what we started. But not yet. Not quite yet.”

“Ugh,” said the (comparatively) littler one.

“What is it?”

“Not used to this body yet. Tight in the shoulders,” complained the beaked on.

“Let’s go.”

And so they took wing, the big one gliding on his six enormous wings like a stately airship. The little one, who was still terrifyingly big, flapped his four wings, flying after him.


	2. Parasol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealings with a haunted umbrella and maple syrup.

Title: Parasol (Household Objects, Chapter 2)  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Author: tikistitch  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (we get there eventually); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death  
Warnings: Cursing.  
Word Count: 5,000 this chapter  
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?  
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later.

 

Sam frowned over his yogurt parfait with granola.

It was _day three_ of this bullshit. And he was getting curious.

And annoyed. Did he mention annoyed?

Yeah.

Cas, over on the other side of the booth, held a cup of coffee. Because even though he routinely refused food, Sam and Dean made him order a cup of coffee so he wouldn't look like a complete douche. 

Dean, deep in the back of the U-shaped booth, was cramming his greasy six egg Spanish omelet into his face. Sam was pretty sure he could literally hear his brother’s arteries hardening.

But it was Cas who intrigued him. Sam had made a rule for himself concerning his brother and his angelic guardian: _don't ask._ Because, between the two of them … well, it just seemed less of a headache to stay out of it.

But it had been three days – 72 hours – and now he was getting curious.

And annoyed. Did he mention annoyed?

Cas himself wasn't the problem. He didn't eat anything, so it wasn't as if he was costing them anything but maybe the extra drag on the Impala. And Dean, who'd been in a bitchy mood lately, was definitely cheerier with the angel around. And Cas, you had to admit, was pretty fucking useful. If you wanted somebody to shut up and go through the microfilms from 1905 to the present looking for signs of werewolf activity, he would shut up and do it. Even if the newspaper articles were in Japanese. As Cas had explained it, Japanese was just a language. Well, that didn’t make one bit of logical sense, but OK. And then he had rattled off something about the Tower of Babel, but that's when Sam started to tune out.

Sam just wasn't sure what the deal was, though. Why did Cas bother looking? Why didn't he just do his angel thing? Twitch his nose, or whatever.

And the other thing: he didn't look well. Sam wasn't quite sure what it was, but he had looked shaky that morning when he popped up in that motel room, and he didn't look any better now. In fact, he looked worse, sort of pale and drawn. If he'd been a real human, you would have told him to go to bed for a couple days.

And that was yet another thing: he slept! The first night Sam had found him sacked out in the car, so Sam got some pillows and a blanket and had him sleep on the floor instead. And then they'd just got a cot for him the next night. 

_Angels don't sleep._

It had gone beyond obvious, to where it was becoming a war of wills between Sam and Dean: Sam wouldn’t ask, and Dean wouldn’t say. But, damn, how stupid did they think he was?

“Casa de what?” slurped Dean, a bit of egg on the corner of his mouth. Sam, annoyed, reached over and flicked it off.

“ _Kasa obake_ ,” said Cas, who appeared to be warming his hands on his coffee mug. 

Castiel looked up at the waitress, who snapped her gum and asked, “Need a warm up, Sugar?”

Cas nodded, and the waitress tipped more coffee into the mug. When she had walked off, he leaned over and asked, “Why does she continually refer to me as ‘Sugar?’ She and I are not acquainted.”

“Think she likes you, Cas,” smiled Dean. Cas looked baffled. “So what’s a casa de whatever?”

“It is basically an enchanted parasol.”

“We’re fighting a magic umbrella?” asked Sam, sputtering raspberry parfait. 

“Yes, it doesn’t make sense does it?” agreed Castiel. “They are reputed by legend as benign entities.”

“The umbrellas?” asked Dean, smiling as if this was all a joke. “They’re good Jedi umbrellas, and not evil Sith umbrellas?”

“This is funny?” grouched Sam.

“Maybe it would be funnier if you had a funny breakfast?” mused Dean. “Like some real food?”

“This is real food,” said Sam. But both brothers looked over to the soft growling noise.

Castiel was staring downwards, holding his stomach as if it were guilty of a great act of betrayal. “Why…. Why did it do that?”

“You’re hungry, dude,” said Dean.

“I thought angels didn’t eat,” put in Sam suspiciously. 

“Yes, Sam is right, I do not require food,” said Castiel defiantly.

“Aw, c’mon, Cas. I piece of toast wouldn’t kill you,” said Dean, putting some rye toast on a small plate and sliding it over in front of Castiel. 

Sam watched Castiel, who stared at the toast. He could swear he could see the angel salivating. But then Cas was pushing it away. “Thank you, Dean. That isn’t needed.” He straightened up in his seat. “There is a belief in Japanese folklore,” he continued, “that inanimate objects which have existed for a period of over a century acquire a spirit.”

“Oh, so ancient stuff? Like our waitress?” asked Dean.

Sam guffawed. He couldn’t help it. Stupid Dean. 

“She is a human being, and so is imbued with a soul,” Cas was explaining. He looked back and forth at Sam and Dean. “Oh. It’s a joke.”

“It’s a joke, son,” said Dean, grabbing the toast he had set aside for Cas and cramming it all in his mouth.

Cas gulped, gazing at the toast, and licked his lips. 

_Something,_ thought Sam, _is not right._

 

This had been the center of Japantown.

Once. Before California had decided that wartime patriotism entailed rounding up a bunch of American citizens and sending them off to internment camps. 

Some Japanese neighborhoods in the big cities bounced back after the war, after the madness was over.

Some, in the small towns, did not.

The proprietor of this building, an elderly man of some wealth, had been trucked off to Manzanar, never to return. Heart attack, according to what Sam and Cas had been able to dig up. Or maybe a stroke. Record keeping wasn’t great. Anyway, evidently as the man had no children, the proper heir was never identified, and so after a decade or two of bickering, the once opulent mansion was boarded up and then forgotten.

“So, is this the kinda place you go to look for a vengeful umbrella?” asked Sam.

“All of the attacks seem to center around this vicinity,” Castiel reported. “And any relics inside would be of the appropriate age. The mansion was constructed around the turn of the last century, so objects inside could potentially be over 100 years in age.”

Sam thought about trying to pick the rusty padlock on the back door, but finally ended up just whacking it with a hammer. It crumbled.

“I dunno,” said Dean. “It doesn’t even look like people bother to break in any more. I think this is a dead end.”

“There are several broken windows up above,” Castiel pointed out, indicating the third and fourth floors. It was one big ass mansion. “They would provide egress.”

“That’s kinda high,” said Dean.

“But it’s an umbrella,” argued Sam. “I mean they … float. Or, something. Cas?” he asked, flapping his hands like wings.

Castiel scowled. “That’s not funny, Sam,” he grumbled, opening the door and stalking inside.

“What did I say?” Sam whispered to Dean.

“Later,” mouthed Dean.

They followed the angel into the building. “Whoa!” said Dean, looking up at the high ceilings. And then, “WHOA!” he reiterated, racing over to a dusty glass case. “Is that real samurai armor?” he asked, rubbing a jacket cuff over the layer of dust on the front of the case.

“Based on the time period, it would appear to be authentic,” Castiel informed them.

“This is the most awesome house ever,” swooned Dean.

“Look,” said Sam, directing his flashlight around in the dimness, “this is a pretty big place. Maybe we should divide and conquer?”

“Sounds good!” said Dean. “OK, you start in the basement, Sam, and work up,” he said, shining his flashlight at a dark stairway headed downstairs. “Cas and I will head upstairs and work our way down,” he said, pointing the light at the main staircase. “And we'll meet in the middle.”

Sam scowled. “Why don't _I_ go upstairs with Cas, and you go downstairs?”

Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and sauntered over to the basement stairs.

Sam stared after his brother for a moment and then, nodding at Cas, walked towards the main staircase. They climbed all the way up to the top. 

“Boy, Dean is gonna be disappointed he went down instead of up,” said Sam, surveying a glass display case full of katana mounted on a table at the top floor landing. Sam ran a hand over the glass covering the lovely swords. “He loves this samurai crap.”

“You requested going upstairs,” stated Cas. 

Ignoring the implied question, Sam said, “Why don't you go thataway, and I'll go this way?” he proposed, sending his light up and down the hallway.

“All right,” said Castiel. He also carried a flashlight, but hadn't bothered to ignite it. “Be careful,” he warned as he walked down the darkened hall.

“What do you do against a monster umbrella?” asked Sam as he watched the angel go. “A silver umbrella stand?” he asked himself. He shrugged and headed off in the opposite direction from Castiel. He paused. Was that a rustling sound? It could be mice. On the other hand....

He crept quietly down the hall, stopping at each door to listen. When he had gotten almost to the end, he heard it again. It was a soft rustling. 

Gripping his flashlight like a club, Sam tried the doorknob. He silently twisted it and then suddenly threw open the door, shining his flashlight around the room. 

The room's windows were all boarded up, but he noticed the boards covering one of the windows had come loose, so moonlight shown into the room, giving it a slightly spooky light. 

And the rustling sound. He immediately aimed his flashlight over to the corner. Nothing was moving right now, so he went over and squatted down. Mouse droppings, he thought. He ran the light along the baseboard, and saw the small crack in the wall. They were chasing a rodent.

Sam blinked. The moonlight suddenly dimmed, as if obscured by a cloud. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck.

And then a soft sound. It was like, _snikt, snikt._

He turned.

There it was slightly above him, hanging in the air: an umbrella.

An old, broken umbrella, the cover nearly rotted through, metal ribs sticking everywhere.

And it was … sticking its tongue out at him.

“Uhhhh,” said Sam, shining his flashlight in what appeared to be its single eye. “Konnichiwa?”

And then it was at him, twirling, broken ribs slashing at him. With a scream of, “Cas!” Sam dove out of the way and then scrambled out of the door and went running down the hallway. The thing slashed at him, ripping the back of his jacket, and sending him reeling. He ran back down the hallway and dove behind the display case of samurai swords on the strirway landing, but the thing, like a big mechanical spider, kept coming after him. 

Sam was on his back behind the display case, the ghoulish umbrella on the other side. He kicked out with his legs and brought over the display case, smashing the glass. And, he hoped, pulverizing one evil umbrella.

There was silence for a moment. He got to his feet, picking through the broken glass and spilled swords, looking in vain for the remains of his opponent.

Then he heard the snicking sound – _snikt, snikt_ – right in back of him.

He turned and dove out of the way, but this time the thing had him cornered, his back to the wall.

Sam cringed, thinking only _Here lies Sam Winchester, killed by a vengeful umbrella._ He would have the world’s stupidest epitath! He threw up his hands to cover his face.

And then there was a clash of metal. Sam opened his eyes. Cas stood in front of him. The angel held a blade in his hand: one of the priceless samurai swords from the display. And he was using it to … _fence_ was the only word for it, with the umbrella.

It slashed out with its ribs, which Cas was awkwardly parrying. The samurai sword was a lot longer than the angel blade he normally used, and it seemed to faze him. But it also seemed to annoy the umbrella, which Sam could swear was sticking its idiotic long pink tongue out even farther than before.

The blade and umbrella tines clashed and clashed again. Cas cried out as a tine slashed down his front, making a good rip in his trenchcoat. He jumped back and returned a flurry from the umbrella. And then, almost by mistake it seemed, he landed a slash across the beast’s tongue. He had amputated the tip, and the beast suddenly squealed, spurting blood.

“Cas!” said Sam, who leapt to his feet. “The eye! Aim for the eye!”

Castiel nodded grimly, the front of his shirt and overcoat now a red gash. He charged the umbrella, and there was a furious exchange. Sam, who had lost his flashlight back in the room, saw only steel on steel, glinting in the sliver of moonlight. 

And then there was a piercing shriek. The umbrella, a blade lodged squarely in its one eye, whirled and cried. Sam noticed Cas was standing beside him, breathing hard. 

“Guys!” yelled Dean, who had just arrived in the doorway. “Holy fuck!” he exclaimed, watching the wounded umbrella.

The _kasa obake_ shuddered, and then erupted into flame.

There was a soft thud as the bloody samurai sword fell to the carpet.

“Whoa,” said Dean. “Cool!” He looked at Cas and Sam. “You guys OK? I heard yelling!”

As if in answer, Castiel’s eyes rolled up in his head. He crumpled to the floor, clutching at his chest.

“Cas!” Dean was there in an instant, cradling the angel’s head. He tore open his shirt and examined the cut Cas had taken from the umbrella spirit. He ran his flashlight over the bleeding wound. He looked up at Sam, a puzzled expression on his face. 

“Is he OK?” asked Sam, hunkering down beside him. 

“That’s weird. This wound is pretty superficial.”

He blinked as Cas’s stomach growled. Castiel shifted and moaned.

“OK, Dean, what the fuck!” said Sam, waving his arms. “I just…. I just nearly got killed by an umbrella! Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on with Cas?”

“Broken wing,” said Dean, gesturing at Castiel. “You gonna help me get him outta here?”

“What?” asked Sam, who suddenly had all the pent up annoyance run right out of him.

“He busted a wing,” said Dean, looking up at Sam. “He seemed real weird about telling you, so I told him I'd keep quiet.”

“Why would he be weird about a wing?”

“I dunno,” said Dean. “He's an angel. They're weird about stuff.”

Sam studied Castiel for a moment. He laughed. “He broke a wing? I shouldn’t laugh, but you know what I was just thinking?”

“Really big shoebox? And a heating pad?” asked Dean.

“Yeah,” laughed Sam. “Only a hot water bottle.”

“Oh, yeah. That would work too.”

 

 _“A broken wing?”_ came the voice over the speaker.

“Yeah, Bobby,” said Dean. He and Sam were sitting on the cool concrete walkway outside their motel room.

_“Damn. I can't think of nothing beyond a damn shoebox. A big damn shoebox.”_

“And a heat pad?” asked Dean.

_“Naw, you wanna use a hot water bottle. So it won't scorch 'em.”_

Sam grinned and gave thumbs up.

“Seriously, Bobby, we're not sure what we should do,” said Dean, giving his brother the stinkeye.

 _“Well, what has he told you?”_ asked Bobby.

“He said all his angel mojo or whatever is tied up fixing it. So he can't do the usual zapping around. And … he's sleeping.”

 _“He's sleeping? Huh.”_ The other end of the phone was silent for a moment. _“Is he eating?”_

“No,” said Dean.

“But he looks hungry! He looks starving! I thought he was gonna beat you up over that piece of toast this morning,” said Sam.

“I offered it to him!” protested Dean.

_“Well, I'd say, get some food into the kid, and pack him up and bring him back here. Did he say what hit him?”_

“That's another thing. He can't remember.”

_“That don't sound good. Like I said, get 'im back here.”_

“OK, Bobby,” said Dean. He looked back into the motel room as he hung up. There was the sound of somebody moaning. He and Sam entered the room, pulling the door shut.

Castiel, who had been put down on one of the beds, was now sitting up, groggy, pulling at the bandage on his chest.

“Hey, hey,” said Dean, sitting down next to him. “Watch it. You'll pull out your floss.”

“What happened?” asked Cas.

“You sort of had a sword fight with an umbrella,” Sam told him. “You also saved me from having the world's stupidest tombstone.”

“What? Oh, yeah,” said Cas, running his fingers through his hair. “Think I remember....”

“You used that sword!” said Dean, pointing beside the bed. 

Castlel glanced over to where Dean pointed. A katana was leaning against the wall by the bed. He leaned over and slipped his hand into the grip, and picked it up, turning the blade this way and that.

“This relic is stolen!” Castiel said at last.

“Uh, no, actually, that was the weird thing,” said Dean.

“Another weird thing,” said Sam.

“We left it,” said Dean. “We couldn't have taken it, we had to pack you out. But then when we came back here and got you settled, we noticed it was by your bed, just like that.”

“I think it likes you,” said Sam.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “I guess if the _kasa obake_ was there, it's possible there were other magical relics.”

“Could be the owner was a magician, something like that,” said Dean.

“Could be,” agreed Cas, putting the sword back against the wall.

“So, anyway,” said Dean. “Uh. We talked to Bobby....”

“He knows, doesn't he?” asked Castiel miserably.

“Cas! Come on, we're not stupid,” said Sam. “And we were concerned.”

Castiel nodded. “I can't even repair this cut,” he said, putting a hand to his chest.

“Aw, that's why they make dental floss!” said Dean. “Anyway, we're gonna get rolling, back to Bobby's. But first we're gonna get some breakfast.”

“I'll just stay here,” said Cas.

“No. You're coming with. We're gonna get you breakfast, so you don't blank out on us again.”

“I do not need food,” declared Cas stubbornly. His stomach, of course, chose that exact moment to growl.

“You don't, but your vessel does. Come on.” 

Castiel, glaring at no one in particular, swung his legs off the bed. He grabbed for his overcoat. 

“Uh, Cas,” said Dean in warning. “I wouldn’t….”

“Oh, no!” said Castiel, regarding the large, bloody rip in the front of his coat. He held the torn coat across one arm, draped there like a body, and threw his other arm out in dispair. It was like a trench coat _pieta_ tableau.

“Look, Cas, don't worry,” said Dean, grabbing the coat. “We'll get this fixed once we get to Bobby's,” he said, carefully folding it up.

“Dean, I don't think dental floss will work.”

“Hey, come on. We can loan you some clothes. We need to get some grub.”

 

Castiel stood in the diner’s waiting room area, knowing what he must do. 

Capitulate to the inevitable.

This did not make the task any more pleasant. He decided to try for a distraction.

“Lamb of God? Are they a group of gospel musicians?” he asked hopefully, reading the T shirt Sam had loaned him as the hostess guided them to their usual table.

“I can't believe you're into that shit,” Dean told Sam.

“It was from a girl I dated,” laughed Sam. “And I know you'd give me shit, so I don't wear it.” They slid into the U-shaped booth, Cas at the back, a Winchester on either side of him. 

“Wait, which girl? Do I know her?” Dean asked Sam. “He'll just have one of everything,” Dean told the waitress, hooking a thumb at Castiel.

“I will have just coffee,” said Castiel, although not with great conviction. _They will never let me get away with it_ , he thought.

“Sure you don't want anything more, Sugar?” asked the waitress.

“Yeah, see,” Sam told her. “Our … cousin here has been sick, and he needs a good breakfast.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “What's the best breakfast?”

The waitress suddenly got a twinkle in her eye. She grinned at Dean. “Pigs in a blanket!”

“Oh, hell yeah! Pigs in a blanket for cuz over there!” said Dean. “And gimme the grand slam.”

“Raspberry parfait and granola,” said Sam.

“Rabbit food,” snarked Dean as the waitress whisked off.

“Artery clogger,” countered Sam.

“Will they actually send the swine out to the table?” worried Cas. 

Although the angel was relieved that his breakfast was merely a platter of pancakes, and that no barnyard animals were visible, he remained reluctant to actually consume anything, poking dubiously at the assemblage with his folk.

“Well, that’s not the way you eat pancakes anyway,” advised Dean. He reached over Castiel and grabbed his butter knife, took up a large dab of the whipped butter from the side of the plate, and slathered it on the pancakes. “You gotta do this first, while they’re warm, so it’ll melt right.”

Castiel sat back and observed. “Oh, a phase change is important?” he asked, folding his hands.

“And then,” added Dean, grabbing a small glass container of syrup, “you pour on the maple syrup!” He drizzled the mixture onto a corner of the pancakes, and then helped himself to a forkful. “Ah! Perfect.”

“Dean!” said Sam.

“What?” asked Dean, who was greedily digging into Cas’ breakfast while the angel sat back looking baffled.

Sam sighed, and picked up another syrup container. “He doesn’t want maple! He wants blueberry! Try this Cas,” he said, drizzling the viscous blue substance onto an empty corner of the pancakes. “See? See?” he said, using his own knife and fork to cut himself a nice sample. “Delicious.”

“You don’t even eat pancakes!” scolded Dean.

“I’m eating them now!” protested Sam through a mouthful. Each brother then defiantly grabbed another forkful, before they at last exchanged a glance, and then looked at Castiel.

“Uh,” said Sam.

“Go on,” said Dean, grabbing Cas’ fork and handing it to him. Castiel hefted the fork uncertainly. _Yes_ , he thought despairingly, _you’re just a human now, no better than them._ So, like a good soldier, he cut a grudging, tiny sample of the pancake, from the area Dean had coated in maple syrup, and lifted it. He sniffed at it. He hadn’t really paid attention to the aromas of human food prior to this. He had to admit, this smelled not entirely unpleasant.

“Just eat it already,” grumped Dean. “I don’t wanna be here all morning!”

Cas obediently popped the pancake in his mouth and swallowed it whole. It slid down his throat, creating an odd, warm sensation. 

He looked from Sam to Dean. “I…. I think I want more pancakes,” he told them in astonishment.

“We’ll order you more when you finish those,” said Dean, digging into his grand slam. “And we won’t let Sam ruin the next batch with blueberry crap.”

“Hey!” said Sam.

Castiel took a more reasonably sized bite from the blueberry syrup area, and this time remembered to chew. It was a weird sensation: instead of quenching his vessel’s appetite, this food appeared to inflame it, making him want to eat more. On the other hand, he reasoned, feeding his vessel could potentially free up more of his magic to repair himself. It was a sacrifice, yes. And dishonorable. But he would do what he must. 

“You’re liking the blueberry?” asked Sam.

“Or course not,” said Dean. “He likes the maple.”

Castiel stuck his fork back on his plate. He retrieved it, but gawped. Situated on the end of his fork was a glistening piece of sausage.

“Oh, yeah, OK,” said Sam, shaking the ketchup bottle. “Now. Here’s how you eat sausage….”

“If you’re a pussy!” said Dean, grabbing the hot sauce. 

Castiel smiled and chewed and watched as his plate filled with warring Winchester-borne condiments.

 

With a big breakfast settling in his vessel's stomach, Castiel felt a warm, drowsy sensation. It was not unlike the time he had been drunk, although he thought this rather more pleasant. He drifted off to sleep almost as soon as he lay down in the back of Dean's car and Dean had keyed the ignition.

He found himself standing on a cloud bank. Well, no, actually, he was standing in a room with dry ice fumes covering the floor. He was wearing a white robe. He had a pipe cleaner halo on his head, and a couple of paper wings taped to his back. In the background there stood an obviously false cardboard promenade labeled “The Pearly Gates.”

Cas sighed, tossing away the halo and tearing off the robe.

“Baby bro!”

Gabriel stopped short, finding himself looking down the blade of Castiel's katana.

“Uh. I don't remember this trick,” said Gabriel. “That's not an angel sword.”

“It's a Trickster sword,” smiled Castiel, jamming the point under Gabriel's chin.

“OK, OK,” said Gabriel, taking a step back. “I just wanted to wish you a speedy recovery!” he gushed, as he was suddenly holding a bouquet of flowers and a heart shaped box of candy with GET WELL written on the lid.

“Really?” said Castiel, scowling at Gabriel.

“No. I guess not really,” said Gabriel, as the presents suddenly disappeared from his hands, replaced by a harp. He strummed the harp, producing, oddly enough, the first chords from Smoke on the Water. “You’ve seen through my evil plans!”

“So, who else knows about me? Everyone?” moped Castiel.

“I don't know about...” said Gabriel, pointing upwards. “Those bitches can go fuck themselves. I heard it from a Tanuki. Woo doggie, those guys can gossip! Especially if you get some sake into them.”

“A _yokai_? We just confronted a malevolent spirit in the house of a Japanese magician,” Castiel told him.

“Oh, that's where you hijacked the shiny, shiny blade,” said Gabriel.

“Reportedly, it followed me home,” Castiel told him.

“Shit! Why did I never have a badass sword following me?” Gabriel complained.

“Maybe because you are an asshole?”

“You wound me little bro!” sighed Gabriel, gripping his heart dramatically. Then he seemed to become serious. Or at least as serious as Gabriel ever acted. “So, what happened?”

Castiel shook his head. “I wish I could recall. But I can't.”

“Shit. But if it was big enough to get you, it's gotta be....”

“...one of us?” Cas concluded.

“One of _you_ ,” said Gabriel sourly.

“As you know, I might not.... I might not be among angelkind.... Any more,” said Cas, his voice catching.

Castiel blinked. Gabriel was now standing right in front of him, hand cupping Cas's chin. “Might be for the best little bro. Angels are worthless shits.” He took a step back. “And you get to hang with those saucy Winchester boys! DA-AMN,” he said, gesturing with his hand as if he had just touched a hot stove.

“Maybe you're right,” said Castiel sadly. “Could you do me one favor, Gabriel? You know the pagan gods. If you hear anything else, could you let me know? I worry that we're all in danger.”

“Will do, kiddo,” said Gabriel, going back to his harp. “Hey, let's sing you an angelic lullaby!” he said, striking a chord.

Cas' eyes popped open to the Metallica riff.

“Oh, sorry, Cas!” said Dean from the front seat. “Too loud?”

“No. That was, as you've said, good timing, Dean,” said Castiel.

“What’s up with the candy and flowers?” asked Sam.

Cas scowled. Gabriel’s candy and flowers were now sitting in the back window. He opened the lid of the GET WELL box, and passed it up to the guys in the front seat. “From my brother,” he said settling back against the side of the car.

“What? Which brother?” asked Sam.

“Gabriel,” said Castiel. He rolled up the jacket Dean had loaned him and propped it against the window like a pillow. 

“Great,” said Dean, grabbing a handful of peanut clusters.

“You’re gonna eat Trickster candy?” Sam asked Dean.

“Hey, he’s a useless prick, but he knows his candy,” munched Dean.

Cas didn’t hear, as he was already drifting off again.


	3. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys investigate a haunted Hollywood hotel, and Sam makes a new friend. Also, a message from heaven.

Title: Mirror (Household Objects, Chapter 3)  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Author: tikistitch  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (we get there eventually); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death  
Warnings: Cursing.  
Word Count: 5,400 (this chapter)  
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?  
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later.

 

“I don’t know,” said Bobby. “But if it’s something that can take out an angel, maybe I don’t wanna know.” 

“It worries me that Cas still doesn’t remember,” said Dean. “And that it seemed to scare the shit out of Gabriel. That guy doesn’t scare easily.”

The two hunters sat outside at the picnic table, across from each other. They each held a bottle of beer, and there might have been an empty or two spread across the table.

“Tangling with powers beyond our comprehension,” smiled Bobby. He shrugged. “Same old same old.”

“So you think it’s a good idea to keep taking him out hunting with us?”

“Well, yeah,” said Bobby, scratching his face. “Especially if the boy ain't gonna recover. You said Zach gave you that vision of the future where Cas doesn’t set well with being a human?”

“That could be Zachariah’s bullshit,” said Dean, spreading his hands.

“Could be angel bullshit, yeah. But he’s going to need something to do. I think he’s got the knack for it. He’s a bright boy, even if he ain’t got the common sense God gave a housefly.”

Dean laughed.

“And there’s another thing,” said Bobby. “If Gabe found out about this by talking to one of those big-balled Japanese critters, maybe if you boys keep your ears out, you’ll hear something about what swatted Cas.”

“That’s true,” said Dean. He listened. “Hey, I know that engine!” he said as he heard the unmistakable noise of the Impala downshifting.

“Uh,” said Bobby, holding out a hand. “You might wanna sit back down.”

“Why?”

“Well, don’t get upset, but Sammy told me-“

“I thought he was taking Cas to town to grab him some new clothes!” said Dean.

“Well, yeah, but then after that- Wait, Dean!” said Bobby as Dean ran towards the sound.

 

“Oh. Wait. Was that the reverse gear?” Cas was asking Sam. He was holding his hands on the steering wheel precisely at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock.

They were in the Impala, on the grounds of Bobby's wrecking yard, in an area relatively free of scrap metal. 

“Well, given that the car just lurched backwards, what would you say?” grinned Sam from the passenger seat.

“I find this highly non-intuitive!” muttered Castiel, shifting to drive. He gingerly pressed the gas, but suddenly stomped on the brake just as Sam hauled over and pulled the parking brake.

Dean was standing directly in front of the car, arms spread protectively over Baby’s hood.

“Park,” smiled Castiel, efficiently switching the gearshift on the steering wheel.

Dean marched over to the passenger side, gesticulating wordlessly, too agitated to form words.

“Yeah, Dean?” grinned Sam, sticking his head out the window.

“You’ve got…. You’ve got…. You’ve got an angel…. Driving my baby!”

“Yeah, we thought it would be a good idea,” said Sam, blithely ignoring his brother's shitfit. “If Cas comes with us, we could just go nonstop with three guys driving, save money on hotels.”

Castiel nodded solemnly.

“But this is my car,” said Dean.

Sam crossed his arms. “You learned to drive on this car! And so did I! It's a _family_ tradition!”

Dean was thinking of twenty or thirty more things to say, but that one stopped him. That and Cas looking at him, wide-eyed. Was Sam teaching him to do The Stare as well, wondered Dean. 

But Dean couldn’t think of any way around it other than being a hard hearted dick. Here Cas was wounded and maybe the poor guy could never be an angel again and all he wanted was to help them drive….

….the world’s most wonderful and awesome car.

“OK, OK,” sighed Dean. “Just … be fucking careful!”

“Yes, Dean,” said Castiel.

“Did you go get him stuff like you were supposed to?” Dean asked Sam. “In town?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re great,” said Sam, pointing out the JC Penney bags still piled up the back seat. Dean frowned, now resisting the urge to go through the bags and check, as he hadn’t had the patience to volunteer for the shopping trip. “Just don’t let him look like a douche nozzle,” he had told Sammy, fearing that Cas, left to his own devices, would end up resembling someone who’d come knocking on your door with an Awake magazine. 

“OK. I'm gonna go away now,” sighed Dean.

“Where are you going, Dean?” asked Castiel.

“Some place.... Some place where I can't hear … this!” said Dean, the last word breaking in his throat.

 

The next morning had not started well for Dean. Not well at all.

First, Sam had grabbed the car keys. And then Cas had compounded the insult by timidly saying, “Shotgun?” Only he said it like it was a question.

“No, you gotta yell, Shotgun!” Dean told him.

“Shotgun,” said Cas, a little more firmly. Dean rolled his eyes, but gestured for Cas to get in the passenger seat.

But as it turned out, Dean's idiotic little brother actually had a good idea. The back seat was awesome for sacking out, and Dean soon drifted off, with some happy back seat memories on his mind. 

He woke up to the buzz of guitar feedback. And a discussion.

“Is the human reaction to infidelity commonly this incendiary?”

“No, man, but this was Hendrix,” drawled Sam.

“You never heard Hey Joe before?” asked Dean, yawing and leaning against the front seat. “It’s a classic, man! A classic!”

“Hey, look who's back among the living,” laughed Sam.

“I have heard this song frequently played in your car, but I hadn't previously attended to the lyrics,” Castiel told him.

“Well, anyway,” said Dean. “Happens to everyone. I mean, you find out she's going with another guy. But you don't blow away your girlfriend. That's being a shithead. You just curse a lot and maybe punch the wall then drink too much and then go find somebody else.” He shrugged.

“Murder's still illegal,” said Sam. “If nothing else.”

“And the music is supposed to convey the roiling emotional state of the rejected lover,” asked Castiel, who had placed a hand thoughtfully on the cassette player. 

Dean looked at Sam, who risked a glance back. “Yeah, that's about the size of it,” said Dean.

“Like hunger,” said Castiel, almost to himself. He shook his head, as if to shake off the thought. “I suppose I didn't previously fully understand human emotions,” he mused.

“See?” said Dean to no one in particular. “Listen to Hendrix. It's educational!”

“But to continue about the case...” said Castiel, shuffling the papers on his lap.

“Wait, you guys were talking about the case?” asked Dean, stretching and leaning back.

“Were we not supposed to?” asked Castiel.

“Front seat banter! You're supposed to talk about music! Or chicks! Or cool cars!” said Dean.

“Just ignore him, Cas,” said Sam.

“There are many magical and enchanted mirrors. This particular one has, up until now, seemed benign, or at least not harmful or sinister, in its intentions,” said Castiel.

“Yeah, so?” asked Sam.

“This seems similar in many ways to the _kasa obake_. That is traditionally a gentle, harmless apparition.”

“I didn't find it particularly harmless,” grumbled Sam.

“So what do you think that means, Cas,” asked Dean, intrigued despite himself.

“I do not know that there is a connection. But I … feel that the two points are related,” said Castiel.

“Oh, your spidey sense?” asked Dean.

“My … what?”

“You have an intuition,” said Sam.

“Yes!” said Castiel. 

“Wasn't that actress-” Dean started.

“Mamie LaRue,” supplied Sam.

“Yeah, the chick who appears in the mirror? Wasn't she supposedly murdered by her boyfriend?” asked Dean. “I mean, like we've just been explaining to Cas never happens?”

“Blaine Barrybanks?” asked Sam.

“He was evidently the prime suspect at the time,” said Castiel, examining the documents in his lap. “However, there was never sufficient evidence to convict him. And then he ended up fleeing....”

“Fleeing? To where?” asked Dean.

“MEXICO!” said both Cas and Sam. They looked at each other and shared a smile. 

“Huh,” said Dean.

“And, also.... Uh, is it getting close to the time to stop and consume a meal?” asked Castiel.

“Lunchtime!” laughed Sam.

 

“Mr. Waters and Mr. Mason,” said Dean as they registered at the Sunflower Hotel. “And that's our, uh, cousin, Mr. Barrett,” he added, indicating Castiel, who was staring at a potted ficus plant.

The clerk, who was sitting with his feet up on the bell desk, reading, did not budge. “I’m not really a hotel clerk,” said the clerk, not taking his eyes off his Daily Variety.

“You’re not?” asked Dean.

“I’m really an actor.”

“Well, why don’t you act like a hotel clerk, and check us the fuck in?”

“I don’t know. Are you anybody?” He finally looked up at Dean. “You.... Holy crap! Uh, guys, could you wait here?” And then he scurried out of the room.

“Shit are we busted already?” asked Sam.

“Why is it so danged empty in here?” asked Dean. “This is supposed to be one of the most swanky hotels in Hollywood.”

The young clerk came back with an older gentleman. The man looked as if he had tried to hold off aging for at least a couple decades via spray tanning and some rather mediocre quality cosmetic surgery. He was wearing a “manager” badge. The clerk whispered something to him. The manager leaned over the desk, as if to confide with Sam and Dean. “I know who you are.”

“Uh, yeah, who are we?” asked Dean.

“You're the boys … who help the Ghostfacers!”

“My roommate's sister's cousin is a producer on that show!” bragged the clerk.

Dean began to roll his eyes, but was stopped by Sam stomping on his foot.

“Yeah, we're their, uh, assistants,” agreed Sam. “The Ghostfacers.”

“They said they'd get me on a show!” bragged the clerk.

“Who are you?” the manager demanded of Castiel, who had drawn near. “Are you anybody?”

“Uh. No,” said Castiel. 

“Good. Look, I have a problem,” the manager told Sam and Dean. “The reason people come to our hotel is to see Mamie.”

“Mamie LaRue?” asked Dean.

“Yeah. People come from all over the world to see her ghost! She's been in the mirror – that mirror – for nearly a century,” he said, pointing towards a full length mirror displayed prominently in the lobby. “But now.... Well, it's been months since anyone has sighted her. And my guests. Well, they're describing some … unusual events.”

“They're getitng the shit beat out of 'em!” supplied the clerk.

“Corey. Shouldn't you go work on assembling your head shots?” sighed the clerk.

“Hey, OK,” said Corey, who ambled off.

“Actors,” grumbled the manager.

“So, you want us to look into it?” asked Sam. “What's happening with the mirror?”

“Actually-” started Castiel, who got a foot stomp from Dean.

“What I'll do, I'll put you boys up in the Presidential suite. Three days. On the house.”

“And we look into the magic mirror?” smiled Sam.

“Well, we were here on other important, uh, Ghostfacers business,” said Dean.

“But I think we can give him three days,” said Sam. Castiel looked between the brothers, completely baffled.

 

“Hot tub in the room? That's what I'm talkin' about!” said Dean once they had checked into the opulent room.

Castiel peered at the empty tub. “Are communal baths supposed to confer high status?” he inquired.

“We should probably get out and do a recon,” said Sam. “Before it gets dark.”

“Aw, Sammy,” pleaded Dean, “we just drove cross country. Can't we hang in the tub, maybe smoke some cigars?”

“This is a non smoking hotel room,” Sam pointed out. 

“And you suddenly don't know how to disable a smoke alarm?” asked Dean.

“Um, perhaps Sam and I could take a look around while you unwind from, uh, sleeping in the back seat?” said Castiel. Sam snorted with laughter while Dean glared. “What?” asked Castiel. 

“Good idea, Cas,” laughed Sam. “You can meet us later if you want, Mr. Hollywood,” he added, leading Castiel out the door.

“I'll use up all the hot water!” Dean grumbled after them. 

“Where shall we start, Sam?” asked Castiel as they reached the hallway.

“Down the hall, I think,” said Sam. “That's the room where the murder occurred. And then maybe spread out from there.”

“Oh. How will we get into the room?”

“Heh. You got angel mojo, we got hunter mojo!” bragged Sam, pulling out his pick. The Sunflower still used locks and keys, and it only took moments for Sam to break in. Sam peered in and then opened the door. “Doesn't look like it's occupied,” he told Cas, though he also held his finger up to his lips.

Sam flipped on the lights. It was large: larger even than the Presidential suite. Sam immediately noticed the large mirror. “Good we didn't bring Dean, he'd just be jealous,” he muttered as he held an EMF meter to the mirror. “Huh. Not a lot of activity.”

“Sam!” 

Sam turned at Castiel's call, just in time to be whacked in the face by something huge.

The being looked like a bunch of electronic snow that had escaped from a television set. It vaguely resembled a human, and it seemed like it must be at least as tall as Sam. 

Castiel was standing there, positioned between Sam and the spirit. He was now holding that magical sword. “Stay back,” he warned.

The spirit ignored Cas, rushing right through him to punch Sam once again.

“Whoa,” said Castiel.

“YOU TWO TIMER!” said a low but female-sounding voice.

“Cas!” shouted Sam, as he was smacked again.

Castiel tried to jump onto the spirit's back (or more or less where the back would be) but just ended up falling through it, to smack on the floor. 

“DOUBLE CROSSER!” yelled the ghostly voice.

Castiel grabbed a lamp and hurled it at the spirit, but, unsurprisingly, it just passed right through and smacked against the wall.

“Cas! Help!” pleaded Sam as the spirit loomed over him.

“Miss LaRue!” yelled Castiel.

The spirit paused.

“Miss LaRue!” said Castiel. “Please! Your boyfriend reacted inappropriately to the situation!” said Castiel.

The tall spirit seemed to turn. And then a husky female voice said, “What's that, scrawny?”

“Your boyfriend,” said Castiel. “Mr. Berrybanks. He should not have submitted to his … roiling emotions. And, um, blown you away.”

The spirit solidified into a female figure. An extremely curvaceous female figure. Jessica Rabbit, thought Sam, although he was careful not to voice this thought. She had platinum blond hair, and wore a clingy white outfit, slit up to here and down to there.

The ghost of Mamie LaRue leaned forward, running a hand up and down the lapel of Cas' jacket.

“Well,” she breathed. “You're a cute one. A little shrimpy for me though,” she noted, touching his nose with her finger. “I might throw ya back in the water,” she commented, putting a hand on one of her generous hips as she stood in front of him.

“Um. Sorry?” asked Castiel.

“She's making a joke, Cas,” said Sam.

“Oh,” said Cas.

Mamie turned her attentions to Sam, who felt himself lifted up and set right. “Nooooow,” said Mamie, running a ghostly finger down Sam's chest. “You're a tall drink of water, aren't ya? You can come up and seem me, any time. Maybe I'll tell you your fortune,” she promised, touching a finger to his chin.

“We think,” said Castiel, “that Mr. Berrybanks....”

“Blaine?” said Mamie, rounding on Castiel. “That cheatin', lyin' double-crosser?” she roared. Castiel cringed back.

“Wait,” said Sam. “You mean he cheated on _you_?”

“He done me wrong!” said Mamie. “I walked in on him with another dame! Some hotel heiress.”

“This hotel? The Sunflower?” guessed Sam.

“Yeah! A good girl. My sweet ass. That mug was just after her inheritance. But they both run off before the cops could track 'em down.”

“Sam! Cas!” yelled Dean from the doorway. “I heard the.... Uh, oh. Hello,” he told Mamie's ghost.

“Helloooo!” said the ghost of Mamie LaRue. “So many good lookin’ boys. The temperature’s getting’ unbearable. But don't worry, little chickadee,” she told Sam, ruffling his hair. “You're still my number one beau.”

“What?” asked Dean.

“We were just, uh, _talking_ to Miss LaRue,” said Sam who was blushing a little.

“Aw, don't be formal, kiddo. ‘Miss LaRue’ sounds like your old maiden aunt. And, I ain't no maiden. You can call me Mamie.”

“May we ask, Miss- I mean, Mamie. What has evoked your wrath?” asked Castiel.

“Well, I tell ya, squirt. That lyin' rat has come back!”

“Blaine?” asked Dean. 

“But he's been dead nearly fifty years,” said Sam.

“I seen him, I tell ya!” said Mamie. “Hangin’ out in my domicile!”

“Is it possible someone transported relics, or even his remains back to the hotel?” Sam asked Dean.

“Oooo, smart as well as good-lookin'!” said Mamie appreciatively, her ghostly bosom now right in Sam's face. “Tell me, are you married, doll?”

“Uh, no, not at the present time,” blushed Sam.

“I don't blame ya. Marriage is a fine institution. But I ain't ready to be institutionalized just yet,” said Mamie, straightening Sam's collar.

“Why would someone do something like that?” asked Dean.

“We should conduct a thorough search of the hotel grounds,” said Castiel.

“And maybe later I'll search your grounds,” she promised Sam, patting his ass. She dissolved for a moment and passed completely through him, reappearing on the other side. “Mmmmm. A hard man is good to find,” she murmured. And then with a wink aimed at Sam, Mamie disappeared, leaving only a hint of ozone and a vague smell of her perfume.

“Uhhhh. Was I just sexually harassed by a ghost?” croaked Sam.

“Come on,” urged Dean. “Let's go find her two-timing boyfriend.”

“I don't understand,” said Castiel. “Blaine Berrybanks' remains obviously moved here recently. Why would anyone want to upset Miss LaRue?”

“You're asking me?” sighed Sam.

“Actually,” said Dean, “I got a really good idea.” He stopped dead. “Shit!”

“What is it, Dean?” asked Castiel.

“Well, I bet this'll get our asses kicked out of the presidential suite.”

“I.... I dunno if I wanna spend the night at this hotel,” said Sam. “In fact, I might go sleep in the car.”

 

“OK, where are they?” Dean demanded of the bored looking hotel clerk. It was the same guy who had checked them in.

“Where's what?” grumbled Corey, who didn't even bother to look up from Daily Variety.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” said Dean.

“Oh, please,” said the clerk.

“OK, have it your way,” said Dean, who easily vaulted the hotel desk and headed for the office directly behind.

“Hey, wait, you can't go in there!” said the clerk, tossing away his magazine.

“Where do you have the bones?” asked Dean, who was already gleefully trashing the office.

“You've got to get out of here. What if my manager gets back?” fretted Corey.

“Then you can explain to him why you chased away his main attraction, Mamie, to get a shot on Ghostfacers.”

“They told me they wouldn't come down for just Mamie! She's old hat!”

“I'M WHAT?” demanded a very large spirit, who was suddenly hovering over Corey.

“Oh. Uh. Ah,” said Corey.

“Hey, Mr. actor guy, you got two choices,” said Sam, who had just stuck his head in the door along with Cas. “Tell us where Blaine Berrybanks' mortal remains are. Or Mamie will beat the everloving shit out of you.”

Mamie leaned over threateningly. “I'll moider ya, ya mug,” she growled.

Corey cringed, and then opened a closet, where he rummaged under several decades of hotel detritus. He held up a rather ratty shoebox.

“Dat’s him! Dat’s Blaine! I’d know that lyin’ stinker anywhere!” said Mamie.

“Miss LaRue,” said Castiel. “If it would make you more comfortable, we could handle this matter from here!”

“Thanks, baby blues. Your mudder should be proud o’ ya,” said Mamie, who departed.

“My … mudder?” asked Castiel.

“Where did you get this?” Dean asked the clerk.

“I didn’t go looking for them, if that’s what you mean!” protested the clerk. “These two guys show up one day.”

“Two guys?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, I didn’t get their names. But there was a big one,” he said, wrapping his arms wide, as if trying to hug an obese gentleman, “and a tall one. They said they were Blaine Berrybanks’ earthly remains, and if we kept them here, it would cause some fireworks with Mamie. Some telegenic fireworks!”

“You thought he and Mamie would fight?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, I never thought she’s start smacking around our guests.”

“Is it really worth this just to get on television?” wondered Dean.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” said Corey. 

“So when the troubles started, why didn’t you just get rid of Berrybanks’ bones?” asked Sam.

“I dunno, what the hell do you do with enchanted bones? Put ‘em out with the recycling?” asked Corey.

“Amateur,” sniffed Dean.

 

“A shoebox,” muttered Sam, glaring at the cardboard box containing the mortal remains of one Blaine Berrybanks.

“Hey, no shame in a shoebox,” said Dean, who seemed to be laughing at some kind of joke. “Think that's enough lighter fluid?”

“I think that will take down half of North Hollywood,” said Sam. “You got the salt?” Dean leaned over and poured half a bag of rock salt in the box as well.

They were all standing out on the swimming pool deck of the Sunflower hotel. The pool was empty, as there were no other guests. Sam had placed the shoebox in an empty planter beside the pool.

Dean brought out a matchbook.

“What was that?” asked Castiel.

“What was what?” asked Sam.

“Wait! What do you boys think you're doing!”

The three men turned to face a spirit looking at them. He looked like an old timey movie start, dressed in a fine suit with a silk ascot.

“Uh, Blaine Berrybanks, I presume?” asked Dean.

“We're exorcising you,” supplied Sam.

“But, I like it here!” pleaded Berrybanks.

“Mamie doesn't like you,” said Sam.

“And we like Mamie,” said Dean.

“You done her wrong!” added Castiel.

“Hey, good one, Cas,” said Dean.

“Thank you, Dean,” smiled Castiel. “May I light the bones.”

“Hey, sure, why not,” said Dean, offering over the matchbook.

“Don't do that!” pleaded Blaine Berrybanks. But just as he was reaching for the matchbook, a rather large, curvaceous figure appeared in front of him.

“You two-timin' double-crossin' no good son of a sea captain!” she growled.

“Oh, this is good,” said Dean.

Mamie then wound up to slug Blaine, but her fist just whooshed through him. He turned and ran, and Mamie took off after him.

“Whoa, she can really run in that tight skirt,” said Sam with a grudging admiration.

“You know what this needs?” said Dean.

“Yakety Sax?” laughed Sam.

“You got it. But we can't YouTube it, 'cause we don't have the infrared camera.”

“Damn. Too bad the Ghostfaces didn't turn up after all,” said Sam.

“Think of the hits,” said Dean.

“What is a yackety sax, Dean?” inquired Castiel.

“It doesn't matter. Match, Cas,” said Dean.

Castiel struck the match, and then, after repeating some foreign sounding words, tossed it into the shoebox, which immediately flared.

“What was that, Cas?”

“That was Enochian. It was … a sort of a curse,” said Castiel.

“Oh! What did you say?”

“I told him his wings should rot off,” said Castiel.

“Hey, you gotta teach me that one,” said Dean.

Mamie and Blaine enjoyed a couple more rounds around the pool before Blaine abruptly stopped, screamed, and then went up in smoke. Mamie, too, blinked out.

“I guess our work here is done. You mugs,” grinned Dean.

 

To his surprise, Sam enjoyed a rather relaxing night of slumber in the presidential suite. He happened to glance over his shoulder as they were checking out, and could have sworn he saw someone – a blonde woman – winking at him.

“I think Mamie's back home,” he told Dean and Castiel as they loaded the car.

“Aw, she'll miss you,” Dean grinned.

“Yeah, well,” said Sam. He dumped his pack in the back seat and then went to jump in the car.

“Hey, wait, who packed that?” asked Sam. “Is this a joke?”

Dean and Cas crowded around the back seat.

It was a small mirror. 

Sam picked it up and squinted at it. And then, with a cry, he dropped it.

“Mamie's in that mirror! I saw her! I swear she winked at me!”

“I think it's her parting gift for you, Sam,” said Cas.

“Yeah, I think Mamie wants you to come up and see her,” laughed Dean.

“Not. Funny,” said Sam, sitting a good distance away from his magical mirror.

 

Castiel set the parking brake and turned off the engine.

He jumped out of the car, into Bobby's wrecking yard. He felt like … dancing?

“Keys!” shouted Dean.

Castiel grinned and flipped the keys to Dean. “I let you drive, doesn't mean you own the fucking car,” grumped Dean.

“I drove,” Cas told Sam.

“Good job, dude,” grinned Sam, giving him a clap on the shoulder while Dean fussed over his beloved car. 

It wasn't flying, of course, Cas had to admit. But...

“Boys.” 

Cas turned. It was Bobby. Looking grim.

“What is wrong, Bobby?” asked Castiel.

“Think you boys need to see something,” said Bobby. “You too, Cas. Especially you.”

Castiel frowned, but followed Sam and Dean around to the back.

There, standing in the middle of a holy oil fire....

“Zachariah,” whispered Castiel.

“I've been standing here two days. TWO DAYS!” fussed the angel.

“Aw, quit yer bitchin'. You coulda called first,” said Bobby.

“What do you want, Zachariah?” demanded Castiel, his good mood shot to hell.

“Castiel? You look … different,” said Zachariah. He squinted at Cas. “Have you been eating human food.”

Castiel looked down, but didn't deny it.

“Get to the point, Zachariah,” said Sam.

“And talk fast,” added Dean, who was glowering at the angel bureaucrat.

“I got a lot more holy oil where that came from,” Bobby noted.

“Castiel,” said Zachariah. “We need you. Back at the garrison.”

Castiel was speechless. “No,” he said. He turned to go.

“Castiel! Wait! Your brothers! They're dying!”

Castiel stopped and turned around.

“Two. Just this week, Castiel.”

“I'm not an angel any more, Zachariah. As you must know, I might never be one again.”

Zachariah gulped. “They... Their wings were pulled off.”

Castiel stared.

“While they were still alive,” said Zachariah. “Still alive!”

“Cas!” said Dean. Castiel realized he had sunk to his knees. Dean was there, beside him.

“No,” whispered Castiel, hugging himself. _The sheer cruelty. It was … unimaginable._

“Come back! Come back to us! Help us,” pleaded Zachariah.

“How can we trust you?” barked Dean. “You're a lying sack of shit.”

“Don't believe me? Ask anyone. Castiel, it was Barrattiel. And Amitiel.”

“They were friends,” said Castiel, shaking his head in disbelief. “They were good people.”

“Heaven might be in danger Castiel. We need your help.”

Castiel was quiet for a time. He needed to think, but couldn't do it in the face of the fire and the pleading angel. 

He got up and grabbed one of Bobby's fire extinguishers and aimed it at the fire.

“Go,” he said quietly.

“Castiel,” said Zachariah.

“Go!” he repeated.

Zachariah was not there any more.

Cas tossed away the fire extinguisher and, pushing Dean away, stormed out, unable to put together a coherent thought.

 

“Cas?”

Castiel looked down. It was past dark, and he wasn't quite certain how Bobby had spotted him sitting up on the hood of the wrecked car.

“What?”

“You missed dinner.”

“Not hungry.”

“Well, we saved some for you. I managed to keep it away from two hungry Winchester boys.”

“Thank you, Bobby. That was kind.”

“Aw, don't get mushy. You had time to stew over what Zach said?”

Castiel hopped down from the car. He noticed it was getting cold, and he was a bit stiff. He shrugged. “He is a lying bag filled with excrement. Like Dean said.”

“You gonna go help 'em? I guess they're your kin.”

“I don't know.”

“Well, it's your decision. You're over 21. Well over 21.”

“I have.... I have a dysfunctional family!”

Bobby roared with laughter. “You ain't the only one, kid.” 

“They must be very desperate. If they would ask the assistance of a one winged angel, like me,” said Castiel.

“I don't trust 'em. And you shouldn't either,” said Bobby.

Castiel nodded. “I have thought long and hard, but I do not know what to do.”

“Well, I tell ya, let me ask you something,” said Bobby as they started to walk.

“All right,” said Castiel.

“Let's say you do go back to them. Go back to your garrison. And then something happens to one of the boys. Sam. Or Dean.”

Castiel froze.

“Yeah, I thought so,” said Bobby.

“I cannot go back, can I? I need to tell Zachariah no, don't I?” asked Cas.

“Come on, we'll get you some vittles,” said Bobby, leading the way.

 

Castiel had had more of an appetite than he reckoned. He sat alone at the table, surveying the remains of Bobby's leftovers. There really wasn't much left but the tinfoil.

Funny, he thought. Only days ago, he would look at it as feeding his vessel. Now it seemed he himself was hungry.

“Hey, Cas,” said Dean softly.

Castiel nodded, and Dean pulled up a chair. 

“So, um,” said Dean, poking at the tinfoil. “You gonna go back and help the angels?”

“No.”

“Really?” said Dean, who smiled, and then stopped himself. “Because. Um. If that's what you feel you need to do....”

“I am concerned, as we all are, about the situation. But I talked it over with Bobby. My place is here. For the present time.”

“OK. Cool,” said Dean. 

“Now I feel I need to sleep,” said Castiel, who made to stand up.

“Yeah, um. I got something,” said Dean. He flipped a card over the table to Cas, who picked it up. 

It was a counterfeit driver's license. With Castiel's picture on it.

Castiel sat back down. He held the card, running his thumb over the rather blurry and terrible photograph. He tried to form words. Finally he said, “Um. Who is Lars Ulrich? The name seems familiar.”

“Just a guy,” grinned Dean.

“Thank you, Dean. I really appreciate this.”

“It's still my car! And, uh, you still need to ask me permission!”

“All right.”

“And, we're only going to let you do highway driving. Where we're nowhere near a town! Or, any other cars! Or, anybody or anything!”

“All right.”

“And, only during the daytime. On clear days!”

“All right. I don't see any of these caveats on this license,” said Castiel with a small smile.

“It's implied!”

Castiel smiled his thanks. 

“And, uh, Cas?”

Castiel gave Dean the head-tilt look.

“If it's not prying...” said Dean.

“You may ask me, Dean. You are my friend. You gave me a license to drive!” he said, tapping the license in front of him on the table.

“Look, angels must sometimes get busted wings right?”

Castiel felt his world darken. “That is correct.”

“And, uh.... Well, what generally happens to them? Afterwards?”

“What you mean is, if they do not heal, correct?” Castiel asked him.

“Yeah.”

Castiel stared at the driver’s license, running his hand over Lars Ulrich’s blurry photo. “If my brothers and sisters are feeling kindly, then.... They will kill them. The wounded one.”

“Fuck,” said Dean. 

And Castiel was briefly glad that Dean didn't pursue what happened when the heavenly host was not feeling kindly.

“Cas,” said Dean. 

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean waited until Castiel was looking at him. “OK. You stay far the fuck away from the other angels. Including Zach. Till you're mended. You hear me?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“That's.... That's an order! From your drivers license issuer!” said Dean, reaching over to tap two fingers on the fake ID. “So, among humans, that's like a sacred bond.”

And quite suddenly, before he knew what was happening, Castiel's face lit up. He had really never heard such a terrible, horrible lie before. Without thinking, he reached out and traced a finger down Dean's cheek. And then he stood and, grabbing the license, headed away to bed. 

He didn't want to get teary eyed again in front of Dean. He was afraid Dean would make him blow in the Kleenex again.


	4. Charcoal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets to meet his idol, somewhat the worse for wear, and Cas has a vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this puppy is finished: 7 chapters, 35,000 words (more or less).

Title: Charcoal (Household Objects, Chapter 4 of 7)  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Author: tikistitch  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (wait for it!); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah  
Warnings: Cursing, brief scene of violence some folks might find upsetting (this chapter)  
Word Count: 3700 (this chapter), 35,000 total  
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?  
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. There will be some pr0n though. Later.

 

It had been Bobby who declared that the team needed “a little ahrandahr.” Castiel wasn't entirely certain what _ahrandahr_ meant, and did not want to ask, as he wasn't in the mood to be teased. The consequences of this directive were that they packed up a cooler full of food and beer, some sundry stuff like blankets and towels and charcoal briquettes and lighter fluid (gallons it seemed), threw it in the back of the car, and drove to a pleasant if rather secluded lakeside area. Here the Winchesters spent a lot of time tossing a football back and forth while Bobby sucked down beer after beer and attempted to make the charcoal briquettes catch fire via heavy utilization of the lighter fluid.

Castiel sipped through about half a bottle of beer. Alcohol, as he'd learned to his displeasure, now made him feel the sensation of drunkenness in much smaller quantities than before his injury. As he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to spend the day in a mild haze, and also was definitely not in the mood to fend off accusations of being a “lightweight,” at some point, he had picked up the bottle and gone wandering down towards the lake. 

There was a small dock, and he found himself walking out towards the end. It was cooler down here as a light breeze was blowing. He closed his eyes to the wind in his face, remembering the sensation of flying. He spread his arms, and let the wind flow over him. Memories came rushing back. His breath caught in his throat.

“Hey.”

Cas immediately dropped his arms and turned to see Dean standing beside him.

“Heh. Bobby and Sammy are bickering over the coals. Like a couple old ladies.”

Cas looked back up towards the barbecue pit, where indeed the two were hunched over in some kind of deep and arcane conversation.

“Uh. You feeling OK, Cas? You seem kinda quiet today.”

“Nothing,” said Castiel. _I'm remembering being an angel, and how it sucks to be one of you?_ “Just thinking.”

“Oh. Well, this isn't a day for thinking. Wanna go in?” asked Dean, who was already kicking off his shoes.

“Uh. Go in?” asked Cas.

“Swimming,” grinned Dean, pulling off his shirt. 

“Didn't, um, bring a suit,” muttered Castiel.

“Who needs a suit? Haven't you ever been skinny dipping?”

“Skinny.... What?”

“A human thing you obviously need to learn. Come on! There's no one else around for miles!” said Dean. Dean tossed his shirt in a pile and then, to Castiel's mild horror, pulled down his shorts. “Come on!” he yelled, kicking away the shorts and actually whacking a mortified Castiel in the ass. And then he ran down the dock and launched himself off the end in a splashing cannonball dive.

Castiel stood, rooted to the spot, stupidly holding his beer.

Dean surfaced, and sent a splash at Cas. “Come on, Cas! What the fuck are you waiting for?”

Castiel carefully set his beer bottle down on the dock. He cast a glance back up at the barbecue pit. Well, he thought, swimming naked was probably better than listening to Bobby and Sam fight about the characteristics of the charcoal fire. 

And it was definitely better than getting lost in his own thoughts.

He knew the Winchesters well enough to realize he should not evince any hesitation. He deliberately repeated Dean's actions, albeit more slowly and methodically: slipped off the shoes and peeled off the T shirt, setting it carefully on the shoes. 

Then, trying not to frown, he pulled down his shorts and underwear and placed them over the T shirt. He really didn't want to get into it with Dean over his differing standards of modesty. Besides, to be fair, a good portion of his angelic attitudes towards nakedness had gone straight out the window after a few weeks of sharing cramped hotel rooms with the brothers.

Then Castiel padded towards the end of the dock and peered at the water. Placing a hand on one of the pontoons, he leaned over and gingerly stuck a foot in the water. It wasn't super cold to the touch, but it also wasn't bathwater warm. He thought he should maybe sit down and slide in.

And then there was a hand grabbing on his ankle and, with a yelp, he was in the water. 

He flailed in shock, and then broke the surface, sputtering and shaking his head, to the sound of Dean roaring with laughter. Cas caught his breath, glowering at Dean, and then in a heartbeat splashed over, both his hands atop Dean's head, the weight of his body dunking him. 

Dean bobbed up again, spitting water and laughing even harder. Dean turned and dove and so Castiel followed him. The lake was chilly to his skin, so it felt better to keep moving. It was clear underneath, here at the surface, with the light breaking through, and he liked the sensation of water rushing by his face.

And he loved the weightlessness.

He wished for wings, or at least fins, as human limbs were ridiculous and clumsy, but he watched Dean carefully and tried to match his strokes. The chill wore off as he moved, or one could break surface and float and feel the sun's warmth.

“Are you guys ready to quit fucking around? The coals are finally hot!”

Sam was standing on the dock now, holding the inevitable beer.

Dean kicked over to Sam and brought his arms up to lean on the dock. “Hey, Sammy! Bring us down some towels.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“Fuck you.”

“Come on, Sammy!”

“What if I kick your clothes in the water?” grinned Sam, toeing Dean's pile of discarded clothing.

“Get us towels so we can get out of the water and eat your stupid burnt on the outside raw on the inside fucking burgers.”

“That's the way you like 'em. Bitch!”

“Asshole!” taunted Dean as Sam turned and walked away.

“Will he bring back towels, Dean?” asked a thoroughly perplexed Castiel, who was treading water not so far off.

“Yeah, sure, he's hungry,” said Dean. And sure enough, after a time, Sam was back with towels, which he grudgingly laid on the dock. Dean was out of the water like a shot, toweling off.

Cas deliberately hung back, hoping Sam might take the hint and wander back. I was stupid really, and if he'd been a human being, Cas thought, he would have long been over his modesty.

That's when he felt something wrap around his ankle.

“Dean!” he managed to cry just as he went under. He barely had time to catch a breath. He flailed, and then looked down. Dim in the water beneath him, it was a vaguely human looking figure pulling him to the bottom.

And then it looked up at him.

A shot of fear wrenched through him. 

Fighting terror and the sense of running out of air, he doubled his body on itself and tore at the hand that was gripping him. It seemed impervious. 

He despaired, looking up. The surface seemed far away, and he didn't spot Sam nor Dean coming after him. Had they not heard? Did they think it was a joke? 

And then, his lungs burning, he slashed out with the sword. His sword. How the hell had it gotten into his hand? He aimed and sliced: right through the wrist. And then he was kicking up and up and up in what seemed like forever....

He surfaced, gasping.

“Cas? What the fuck? And... what the fuck are you doing with the ninja sword! You're gonna get rust spots!” said Dean.

Castiel reached up a hand and was yanked up, free of the water.

“Is that blood?” asked Sam, pointing to the katana's blade.

“I was....” Castiel struggled for breath. “I was pulled down. I don't know about the sword. It was just … here.” Dean draped a towel around Cas' shoulders and he shivered.

Dean was leaning over the dock, squinting into the water. “Drowning victim?” he asked Sam.

“Maybe.”

“Did you get a look at it?” he asked Castiel.

“Looked like.... Could have been human. At one point,” Castiel panted.

“Look at his ankle!” said Sam. Castiel looked down. There was a burn mark around his ankle, just where the hand had gripped it.

“Holy shit,” said Dean. “Hey, just like when you flew in and got me!”

“Are you idjits gonna come eat?” came Bobby's bellow from up at the BBQ pit.

“Yeah, in a minute,” Dean yelled back. “We might have to do a little after dinner exorcism!”

“Eat first!” said Bobby. “Demons later!”

“Dean!” shouted Sam. All three of them peered over the dock. Sam gestured for the sword, and Cas handed it over. Sam poked a bit at the water and then stabbed the sword point against on of the pontoons.

He brought it up.

At the end, a clawed hand.

“Ew!” laughed Dean.

 

The burgers were in fact completely delicious.

Castiel consumed one, and then another. He couldn't recall ever eating at a human picnic prior to this. He reached for a third burger.

“Damn, look at your angel eating us out of house and home,” joshed Sam.

“We gotta take you camping, Cas!” said Dean.

“These are really good. This is the best human food I have ever consumed,” said Castiel. “I like these meat patties with a slice of cheese placed upon them!”

“Uh, yeah, that'd be a cheeseburger,” volunteered Dean.

Castiel had also now consumed several bottles of beer, which he told himself he needed due to the shock of nearly being drowned by some kind of lake demon. “I believe I am now slightly drunk as well,” he confessed, looking at his nearly empty beer bottle.

“Lightweight!” laughed Bobby.

“We promise not to take advantage of you. Too much,” laughed Dean. 

Bobby shot a glance at Dean, but said nothing.

“So now it's time for the traditional post-barbecue drunken exorcism!” said Dean. “Sammy, you find anything?”

“Yeah, the 3G is a little shaky out here,” said Sam, who was sitting hunched over an electronic pad. “But I'm pretty sure about our friend with the hand. He gestured over to Castiel's katana, which still held the dismembered hand skewered on its point. 

“So, who's our mystery spirit?” asked Dean. Sam tilted the iPad over so Dean could see it. “Holy shit!”

“Who is that?” asked Castiel.

“Buckley Jones!” said Dean. “He was leader of The Gates.”

“I'ma get the exorcism stuff,” said Sam, grabbing the car keys.

“Buckley Jones? A no good little shit,” said Bobby.

“Wait, you know Buckley Jones?” asked Dean.

“He was a local,” said Bobby. 

“He was a genius!” said Dean.

“Yeah. Genius boy died of stupid,” grumbled Bobby.

“He was a heroin addict,” said Dean.

“Like I said, died of stupid,” snorted Bobby. “The band kicked him out because he couldn't get his shit together. Hey, I'm not that old,” Bobby told Dean, who was looking surprised. “Heard he went back to live with his mom. I know he was out partying with some of his dumb ass friends when he drowned. I didn't realize it was right here.”

Sam returned with a box of goodies, and the boys spent the next few minutes working on summoning the ghost of a dead musician. At last, Sam repeated the summoning spell, and everyone looked around.

All was silence.

“Huh. That was supposed to work,” Sam observed keenly.

“Shit! Wonder why the spirits aren't answering?” asked Dean.

“Because they're dumb shit sprits. Here, gimme that,” said Bobby, grabbing the katana sword with the hand still impaled on it. He dangled it over the still glowing coals. “Hey, dumbass! Come out come out wherever you are!” he yelled.

“OW! Dude, that's my hand!”

The party all turned around to see the softly glowing spirit of a dripping wet man. He was cradling one arm, which coincidentally, lacked a hand at the end.

“Why didn't you come to our summoning?” asked Bobby crossly, taking the hand away from the fire. “You off getting high in the afterlife?”

“Uh. Maybe,” confessed the spirit.

“So why were you trying to sink Cas?” asked Dean.

“Dudes!” said the spirit of Buckley Jones. “I bring you a message. From the great beyond!”

“You wanted to contact us by fucking drowning us?” asked Bobby.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that dude. I forgot about that whole breathing thing.”

“It's all right,” said Castiel.

“Thanks dude, you're totally cool. Hey, wait! Dude! Did you know you're an _angel_?”

“Uh, yes, I think I have this knowledge, thanks,” said Cas.

“Your aura is totally bitchin'! With spangles and shit!” said Buckley Jones, making what one assumes were spangly gestures with his hands.

“Wait. You have a sparkling aura?” Dean asked Cas, who glowered. “You never told us about this,” grinned Dean.

“So what were you supposed to tell us?” asked Bobby, who was of he opinion that this conversation was getting off track.

“You need to go check out the Lake of the Dead,” said Buckley Jones.

“What the hell is the Lake of the Dead?” asked Bobby.

“It's like, Native American and shit. It's totally relevant!” said the ghost.

“OK,” said Sam, consulting his iPad. “Arizona?”

“Road trip to Arizona,” said Dean.

“Hey, I didn't agree to this,” said Sam crossly. “We just got back from the west coast. Why the hell are we going all the way back out there?”

“Dean, it is your des-ti-ny!” said the ghost. “Wooooooooo!”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Dumb shit,” he muttered.

“Those aren't ghostly sounds you know,” sighed Sam. “You're just making woo woo noises.”

“Where did you hear this information?” asked Castiel.

“I heard it from a mermaid! They're cool. Except, you know, they have fish tails.”

“Yeah, bummer,” said Dean.

“And the mermaid?” asked Castiel.

“She was talking to some Native American weather god dudes. The ka-ching?”

“Kachina?” asked Sam.

“You got it!”

Sam and Castiel looked at each other.

“Hey, before I depart off to the great beyond, dudes, could I have my hand back? So I could like, use it. For stuff.”

Bobby frowned and grabbed the sword again. He held it out to the spirit of Buckley Jones, who happily grabbed off the hand and set it back on his stump.

“We have dental floss if you need it,” offered Dean.

“Nah, this is sweet,” said the ghost, reattaching his hand and flexing his fingers. “Catch you later, hunter dudes! And say hello to the Trickster. He's a cool dude.” 

Buckley Jones disappeared, leaving the men looking at each other in confusion.

“Idjit,” sighed Bobby.

 

Castiel was lying out on the dock.

He was naked. But he was not ashamed.

He was glorying in the sun's warmth, drying his body.

His eyes were closed, but he could sense the shadow fall over the brightness of the sun.

Dean was there. Kneeling next to him. Smiling down at him.

Cas put up a hand. Traced his cheek. Two fingers run across those sweet lips.

When Dean leaned down for the kiss, it was perfect, such a light touch of his lips. Cas twisted his fingers in Dean's hair, pulling him down. And there was Dean's weight on top of him now. The feel of skin on skin. It was electric. Cas' hands drifted down now, holding Dean's hips, pulling them into him. 

Dean's hands on him. Moving together. 

And then: something gripping him around his ankle...

Castiel was falling, unable to breathe. His back felt like it had exploded. He had never felt so much pain.

Dragging him down.

His eyes shot open. He peered through the dimness, black on black on black.

He screamed.

_“Baby bro!”_

The car bumped out of the Tunnel of Love, into the bright sunlight. 

Cas turned to see Gabriel sitting, grinning in the seat next to him. 

Annoyed, Castiel jumped out of the car. Cas looked around, confused and disoriented. They were in one of Gabriel's weird dreamscapes: this one was evidently a deserted carnival. Yes, this had Gabriel written all over it, with huge creepy clown faces and an abandoned ferris wheel that still circled round and round.

“Why can't you just call?” crabbed Castiel. “I have a human cellular telephone.”

“I like having my fun. And I have news! It's the angels.”

“Yes. The angels are being attacked. Murdered.”

“Wait, how did you get the news?” asked Gabriel.

“Zachariah appeared at Bobby's place.”

“What? Zach? That giant dickbag!”

“He is,” sighed Cas.

“What did he say? Did he tell you about the plucked angels? 

“Two brothers,” said Castiel.

“No. I've heard it's actually half a dozen now,” said Gabriel.

Castiel shook his head. “Well … damn.”

“Baby bro. Shit just got real,” said Gabriel, snapping his fingers so they were standing in what looked like a minefield. Far off in the distance, a frantic gunfight of some kind was going on.

“I don't understand that reference,” sighed Castiel. “But Zachariah asked me to return to the garrison. To help the investigation.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Gabriel, looking concerned as gunshots echoed in the distance.

“I have told him to, uh, fuck off,” said Castiel.

“Good for you!” laughed Gabriel. 

“I'm not an angel any more. At least, I might not be one again,” said Castiel. Neither angel noticed as the firefight continued in the background. 

“Fuck the angels,” said Gabriel. “But what else is wrong with you, little bro? You look upset.”

“My last dream. Before this one. Dean Winchester was there....”

Somewhere in Gabriel's dreamscape, a mine exploded.

“And...?” urged Gabriel, who was practically bouncing up and down on his toes.

“Dean and I. We were … intimate.”

“Congratulations!” said Gabriel, throwing confetti and blowing a noisemaker. “Aw, little Castiel has grown up!”

“Gabriel!” scolded Castiel.

“No, look!” said Gabriel, pulling Cas by the shoulders and sitting down next to him. They were suddenly in an auditorium, where a 1950s era grainy informational film about the facts of life was playing.

“The birds and the bees, little bro!” sang Gabriel.

“Please quit calling me that,” moaned Castiel.

“After an angel reaches two thousand years old, he starts to get urges! It's completely normal and natural!”

“Gabriel!” shouted Castiel, jumping up. “Turn off the film!”

They were suddenly in an empty space, although the row of theater seats was still there.

“These urges are ... not appropriate! I am Dean Winchester's guardian.”

“I thought you just said you weren't an angel any longer,” said Gabriel, raising an eyebrow. He had remained seated.

“I'm not. But....” Castiel paused, remembering the dream. The sensation of falling, of his wing being broken.... He sat down, hard, next to Gabriel. “Gabriel.”

“What?”

“The rest of the dream. I just remembered.”

“Pleeeeease tell me Sam shows up and he's not wearing any pants!” grinned the archangel.

Dream Castiel looked into his brother's eyes. “At the end of the dream, I had a vision. The beings who attacked me,” he said. “Angels.”

“Shit,” said Gabriel.

“They were angels … possessed by demons.”

“Oh. Oh!” said Gabriel.

“Shit is.... I think that shit has definitely become real now,” said Castiel.

 

There were two of them.

A big one.

And an even bigger one.

The not so big one was giggling. A very big, mean, nasty giggle.

He was dancing around, waving a pair of wings.

The were not his wings. They came, in fact, from the poor being lying at their feet, weeping and moaning, blood dripping down its back.

“Look at me! I'm a pretty angel.”

The wounded being on the ground – it had been an angel, until the laughing beings had pulled its wings off – sobbed.

“Oh, quit that,” grumbled the biggest being, breaking the angel's neck. It stopped crying. The big one sighed. “Bored,” he said.

“You're bored? You want to pull the wings off the next one? Pretty pretty angel?”

“I'm bored with angels.”

“Aw,” said the smaller one, handing his friend one of the wings. “Have some of this then. Have a nice snack. Angel wing! They are good with hot sauce! They are good with ketchup! Or strawberry jam!”

“All right. But after this,” said the big one, turning the wing over in his hands appraisingly, “let's go hit something else.”

“Oh, yes, that will be fun!” said his friend, jumping and flapping his own four wings. “Yes, let's do that! Such a fun idea! Oh, yes!”


	5. Doll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An eventful road trip to the Southwest, and Dean wants to get closer to Cas.

Title: Doll (Household Objects, Chapter 5 of 7)  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Author: tikistitch  
Rating: R  
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (hey, finally); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death  
Warnings: Cursing.  
Word Count: 5,400 (this chapter), 35,000 total  
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?  
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. 

 

_Everybody was kung fu fighting...._

It was the world's most badass Hong Kong Action film.

And Dean Winchester was there!

And Dean was being slowly driven out of his fucking mind....

He stood back and watched, open-mouthed, as Castiel murdered a training dummy. The ex-angel's opponent was just an old punching bag Cas and Bobby had set up for him to practice with the katana (there being no ninja opponents available nearby), but it was still … impressive? That wasn't the word for it. It was all flashing steel and badassery. 

You tended to forget, or just not notice, when Cas was all swaddled up in layers of baggy suit and an ill-fitting overcoat, that he was not a big guy. He was actually thin as hell, even when they reminded him to eat, but it seemed like every ounce was whipcord-strong muscle. 

He held the sword like it was part of his arm, and moved so fast you just saw blurs and glints and flashes. It was like a dance routine or something. Any human opponent would have been in shreds by now.

Cas had started to throw in a couple of more complicated moves, one of which involved spinning around really fast.

That must have been when he spotted Dean.

And stopped. Dead.

“Uh. Hello, Dean.”

And then he blushed. 

Dean grinned from ear to ear. He had to say, though he felt sorry for the guy, and hoped his wing or whatever mended, he liked human Cas. He was still completely socially awkward, but with the added bonus of acting embarrassed like this? It was … it was _cute._

“Damn,” said Dean.

The color spread on Cas' face, and he dropped his wide blue eyes and pretended to look down at the blade. That was another difference: angel Cas would have already been up in Dean's face, leaning into him, saying “I don't understand that reference, Dean,” or some such. But this guy was hanging back, keeping his distance. 

Dean smiled. He wasn't sure why he did what he did just then: a little hunter's predator instinct? But now it was Dean stepping nearer, closing the distance to Cas.

“I am still pretty inept with this weapon,” said Castiel apologetically.

“Inept,” said Dean. “You would have sliced a human guy to ribbons.” Cas looked up at him, and then looked back down, flustered at the proximity. “Are you using, like, angel mojo to do that?” asked Dean.

“Oh, no! That would be a waste!” said Castiel. “We don't use magic for sword fighting. I have just put in many years of practice. Many … centuries.” He looked up again to see Dean staring at him and immediately dropped his eyes.

Cas was sweating and still breathing hard. Dean noticed his shirt had pulled up slightly, revealing a thin band of bare skin above the waistband of his jeans. Dean had a sudden image of sidling up even closer, coming up in back of the angel, pressing into him, placing a hand, right there, flat on the warm bare skin. 

He wondered what Cas would do?

A half step closer. Uncomfortably close, just the way Cas used to do it. Dean waited patiently for Cas to glance back up, and then locked eyes with him again. He looked panicked. It was pretty strange: here was a man who, even though he was injured and pretty much drained of power could skewer a guy in seconds flat, but he seemed discomfited by Dean's presence somehow. 

Dean leaned in just a little more. So close he could feel Cas' breath on him. He could smell the perspiration. He could see Cas' lips slightly part.

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO IDJITS DOING?”

Cas literally jumped at the sound of Bobby's voice. “I was...” he began. “I'm sorry, I lost track of time.”

“Hit the showers, dummy, your breakfast will get cold,” Bobby told him. Castiel fled. Dean started to follow. But Bobby stood in his way. “And you, what do you think you're doin'?”

“Who, me?”

“Who, me,” mocked Bobby.

“I was just watching Cas practice! It's pretty cool,” Dean said, feinting with an imaginary sword.

“You know, he manages to mend that wing, he's just gonna go fluttering off to wherever the hell again,” said Bobby.

Dean scowled at Bobby. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I'm talking about. Or are you really just a big dumb bag of hormones?”

Dean grinned. “Pretty much.”

“Look, boy, if Cas is right, and we got demons that can wiggle themselves into angels….”

“We’re in a world of hurt. I know, Bobby. I know.”

“Just keep your head in the game,” said Bobby.

“I will. Wait – is that Sammy?”

Both Bobby and Dean started running for the house at the sound of the scream. Dean, in the lead, tore inside and up the short staircase to see Sam standing, dripping wet, hair still full of suds, in the cramped hallway outside the shower, a towel clutched around him. Castiel was standing nearby, a smile flicking at the edge of his mouth.

“Sammy? What the fuck?” asked Dean.

“Bobby's fucking bathroom is haunted!” sputtered Sam.

“What?” asked Dean.

“I believe that Miss LaRue’s spirit has made herself at home here,” said Castiel.

“She slapped me on the ass!” wailed Sam.

“Well, she does, um, evince an inclination towards you, Sam,” Castiel informed him.

“You’re being harasses by a sexy ghost?” laughed Dean.

“It’s not funny!” protested Sam.

“It’s a little funny,” said Dean.

“It’s … it’s not at all funny,” sulked Sam.

“All right, all right, look, I think I could set up some warding signs around … my bathroom, to keep out vengeful – or overly friendly – spirits,” grumbled Bobby. “But for today could you just kindly inform her that this ain’t a peep show.”

“Uh, let me,” suggested Castiel, still managing to hold off a grin. “Miss LaRue?” he asked, stepping into the still steaming bathroom.

“Well,” said Dean. “She’s still lively!”

Sam glowered, soap suds running down his eyes. “So. Not. Funny.”

 

Castiel drove. To the sound of choruses of Winchesters.

Both brothers were snoring, including Dean, who had taken over the shotgun position with promises of scintillating conversation to keep Castiel awake and alert as he drove through the early morning hours. That had lasted all of twenty minutes before Dean's head reeled back and the snoring sound emitted. Cas didn't much mind. The cassette tape had run out hours ago, so other than Winchesterian nasal passages, he drove in near silence.

Despite the fake driver’s license, Cas was still restricted in his driving privileges, at least in Dean’s car. He was still forbidden to pilot the car anywhere near an urban area, although Dean had recently lifted the restriction on night driving. That was how Cas had ended up on the 3 am shift. 

But it was glorious. Castiel had seen these areas in the American southwestern region before, of course, in passing. But he had never before had time to linger. And now to come upon these gorgeous sand sculptures as dawn was breaking, casting long shadows across the painted desert: it was magnificent. 

“Whoa. Pretty cool, huh?” asked Dean, yawning himself awake.

Castiel didn’t have the appropriate words, at least in English, so he simply nodded.

“So, maybe stop and get some grub, and then we look for this Lake of the Dead?” asked Dean. “Hey, wake up, sleeping beauty!” he yelled back at Sam.

“Mamie?” grunted Sam.

Dean and Cas looked at each other.

Cas smiled as Dean roared with laughter.

 

Breakfast had somewhat improved Sam’s mood. But only somewhat.

Castiel had, somehow, ended up with a children’s paper placemat and a batch of crayons. This had caused Sam to sulk until Dean, halfway through his six egg omelet, had realized the problem and asked the waitress for another paper placemat for his little brother to color.

However, just as Sam was whetting his teeth to fashion the mat – a map of Arizona's favorite tourist spots – in rainbow colors, Dean had grabbed the paper away from him. 

“Look, dude,” Dean had said, greasy finger pointing to smack dab in the middle.

_Lake of the Dead._

“Why wasn’t this on Cas’ placemat,” grumbled Sam irritably.

“Maybe ‘cause he’s drawn a purple unicorn over that section,” said Dean.

“I’ve always thought they look good. In purple,” commented Castiel, admiring his own artwork.

No one at the diner could provide any information regarding a more exact location for the Lake of the Dead, however. When they emerged after breakfast, Dean spotted a souvenir shop across the roadway just opening for business.

“That says Johnny's Native American Relics. Maybe they’ll know?” he proposed, holding up Sam’s placemat.

“The 'relics' are most likely made in China,” grumbled Sam, but he and Castiel nevertheless followed Dean across the highway.

“Hey,” Dean hailed the proprietor. “We’re a little lost and need directions.”

“Naw, you look like you need kachina dolls,” said the owner, holding up some relics.

“Uh, no, I steer clear of dolls these days,” said Dean, who literally hopped back from the wooden items. “We’re Keith and Mick, and that’s our cousin, Charlie over there,” he said of Castiel, who was regarding a shelf of kachinas.

“I’m Johnny Standing Duck. Not sitting, Standing,” the proprietor was careful to say.

“You know how to get to the Lake of the Dead from here?” asked Sam.

“Do I know how to get to the Lake of the Dead? Do I know how to get to the Lake of the Dead?”

“Uh. Do you?” asked Dean.

“You boys don’t wanna go out there. You know what you want?”

“Uh, what do we want?” asked Dean.

Johnny Standing Duck beckoned, and the Winchesters leaned over near. “Fireworks.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “We’re not here for-“

“Cool! What do you got?” asked Dean.

“You had that look,” grinned Johnny Standing Duck. “Come around back.”

“Dammit,” grumbled Sam, watching his brother, who was suddenly fourteen years old again, scamper after the old shop owner.

“Sam,” said Castiel quietly. He pointed, and Sam looked up. There was a party of people, all dressed in black, walking in a solemn line along the roadway. Towards the back, several pallbearers carried a coffin. 

 

“Seventy-five, and I’ll throw in this kachina doll,” Johnny Standing Duck was telling Dean when Sam and Cas came around the back of the store.

Dean, who was holding a very, very large cardboard box filled with Fourth of July fireworks, was saying, “Dude! I said no dolls! Fifty.”

“Oh, you want this doll. Sixty-five?”

“Done! Sammy, could you loan me forty bucks?”

Sam sighed and went for his wallet. “Dean, did you see the funeral cortege going by?”

“I must have missed it,” admitted Dean, his eyes still lit up.

“Local kid. He drowned.”

That did make Dean take notice. “Wait. Drowned? We’re in the middle of the desert.”

“Exactly,” said Sam.

“We get freak storms,” Johnny Standing Duck told them. “You gotta watch out. Flash flooding.”

“We’ll be careful,” said Dean. “But there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

“Not now,” said Johnny Standing Duck significantly, raising an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” asked Dean.

“Drowned guys. Kokole. They make angry spirits. They try and get home, but they can’t.”

“Coca Cola drowns people?” asked Dean as Johnny Standing Duck retreated back into his shop.

“Kokole,” said Sam. “I think I heard that word before.”

“Well, I guess for now we follow the placemat,” reasoned Dean, hefting his box of fireworks.

Sam shook his head, and they all wandered back to the car. “We're following a placemat on the word of a fireworks seller and a stoned ghost rock star,” he muttered.

“We could follow my placemat, Sam,” offered Castiel, proudly holding up his artwork.

Sam sighed and got into the car.

 

The Impala was in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Dean and Castiel stood looking around, though for what, neither could say. 

Sam sat on the hood of the car hunched over his iPad because, as he said, he was getting really excellent 4G reception.

“Well, that's what happens when you get your directions from a napkin,” sighed Dean.

“I think it was a placemat, wasn't it?” corrected Castiel.

“Yeah, anyway, I don't see any purple unicorns.”

“Oh, they aren't typically purple,” Castiel informed him. “I just think that is the most aesthetically pleasing color.”

“You have the unicorn cred,” said Dean.

“I'm sorry?” Castiel scowled at Dean for a while. “Oh. You're making a joke. At my expense.”

“Hey, just giving you shit,” said Dean.

“Guys, you know the kokole that the Sitting Duck...”

“Standing Duck!” corrected Dean.

“Standing Duck guy told us about?”

“Yeah? So what about it?” asked Dean.

“I've been reading up on them,” said Sam, sliding down off the car's hood. “And it sounds a little concerning. It says here that unhappy spirits turn into _uwanammi_.”

“What are uwanammi?” asked Dean.

“Basically, vengeful water monsters,” said Sam.

“We're in the middle of a fucking desert!” said Dean.

“We're in the middle of a fucking dry wash in a desert,” said Sam.

“Look at the sky,” said Castiel. 

Dean looked up and sighed. “Yeah, it is clouding up. Might as well get out before this road turns to mud,” he said, looking back at the long dirt track they needed to follow to get back to the main highway.

“Can I drive, Dean? This is not an urban land, and it's midday!” asked Castiel.

“Sure Cas,” said Dean, flipping the keys into the angel's hand.

They jumped into the car and headed back down the road.

And then the sky opened up.

Despite the wipers going as fast as they could and the high beams on, Dean couldn't see more than a few feet ahead, although Castiel quietly assured him they were indeed still following the now invisible dirt road. Dean fretted, though he was silently grateful Cas was still capable of some weird angel tricks. “How many miles were we out?” Dean asked. “Is the highway getting near?” 

“It didn't seem like it was this far out,” said Sam from the back seat.

“Oh, hey, great!” said Dean. The downpour stopped as suddenly as it has started. Castiel flipped off the windshield wipers, and the only sound was tires through standing water. Dean was happy to see that, true to Cas' words, they were still on the dirt track, although it had turned to a mud track.

“Dean, what's that?” asked Sam.

Dean turned around to peer through the back window.

“Cas....”

“I see it,” said Castiel, flicking his eyes to the rearview mirror. 

“Flood waters?” asked Sam.

“Might be....” said Dean.

“No,” said Castiel. “It's not flood waters.”

“Shit,” said Dean. Whatever it was, it was gaining on them. “Can you...?”

“Going as fast as the parameters of this car will allow,” said Castiel.

“Well, maybe go nudge the parameters a little,” pleaded Dean.

Dean turned around again. Whatever it was, it was gliding across the standing waters.

Its mouth was open. The mouth looked big enough to swallow a bus.

It had racks of glistening pointed teeth inside.

And it was still gaining.

“It looks like a fucking sandworm!” said Sam, who was staring in horror at the back window.

“What's the fuck's a sandworm?” asked Dean.

“Didn't you read Dune in high school?” asked Sam.

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Maybe I was too busy, I dunno, getting laid?” said Dean.

“It is still gaining on us,” said Castiel needlessly.

“Are we near the fucking highway?” asked Dean, tearing himself to look around forward.

“Not near enough,” said Castiel, who had one eye on the rearview mirror. “I have an idea. Hold on,” he said, suddenly wrenching the car into a sharp 90 degree turn.

“Oh, the shocks,” said Dean.

“Cas, what are you...?” said Sam.

“Cas, is that...?” said Dean.

The car was rapidly approaching the end of the road.

The road ended abruptly.

In a sheer cliff.

“Both of you,” Castiel said, very quietly. “Hold on.”

Dean gaped as Castiel piloted the car straight towards the dropoff. “You're going to.... Your going to turn? At the last minute? Is that the plan? Cas? Cas?”

“Hold on. Hold on.” It was a whisper.

“Fuck,” said Dean. He turned and cringed. The monster was within a few feet. It opened its jaws wider. “Cas!”

And then the Impala left the ground. There was a rushing noise, a whoosh of air. 

Dean was wrenched forward, and then back.

He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

And then … the sound of the tires rumbling on gravel again.

The sound slowly got lower as the car ground to a halt.

Dean pushed himself up and looked back. And then he was out of the car.

“Baby, are you OK?” he asked the Impala.

Castiel opened the driver side door. He stumbled out, and promptly fell to the ground. He lay on his back, staring up at the sky, breathing hard.

Sam was the last out of the car. He ran a few feet back and stared in wonder at the wide canyon they had just jumped.

He whooped.

“That was so cool!” he screamed. “Evel Fucking Knevel! Cas, can we do it again, please please?

Receiving no answer, he walked around to the driver's side. “Cas? You OK, man?” he asked, squatting down.

“No,” said Castiel. He was making absolutely no attempt to sit up. Nor to move in any way.

“I think she's OK,” said Dean, referring to the car. “I think she's still OK.”

“Cas. Did you … fly us?” asked Sam.

“Yes, Sam. I flew us,” said Castiel.

“Whoa,” said Sam, sitting down cross-legged next to Castiel. “That was pretty fucking awesome. Can we do it again?”

“No.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Cas, you OK?” asked Dean, who was finally hovering over the angel.

“Every … cell … of my body … hurts,” said Castiel.

“Come on,” said Dean, helping him to sit up. “We'll go into town … once we find town. And we'll get you a couple bottles of aspirin. And maybe some whiskey. A lot of whiskey.”

“I think we have a bottle in my pack. Ibuprofen, not whiskey. In the trunk,” said Sam.

“Oh. Good idea,” said Dean. He headed around and popped the trunk. “SON OF A BITCH!”

Sam and Castiel looked at each other, Cas leaning painfully on one elbow.

“What is it?” asked Sam. But Dean was already coming around. 

“I told that bastard, no fucking dolls! Look what he slips in my package of fireworks!” raved Dean, holding up the kachina doll.

“You think that was it?” asked Sam.

“Of course it was! Fucking cursed dolls. Now we gotta go back into town and return the bastard. That's the only way.”

“Dean,” said Castiel. “I do not think that item is cursed. Or … not in the way you think.”

“It's cursed! It's a cursed fucking doll! Come on, Sam, help me with Cas. We gotta get to town, and get rid of this shit.”

The drive back to town was relatively uneventful and, after polishing off half Sam's bottle of Ibuprofen, Castiel soon conked out in the back seat. Dean hung the little wooden kachina doll from the rearview mirror, where he could “keep an eye on the little fucker.” It swayed back and forth, colored feathers ruffling.

“I don't believe this,” Dean raved. “I mean, Cas gets this badass sword following him around, and you get a mirror with a sexy Hollywood bombshell....”

“It's not that fun,” grumbled Sam.

“And I get the doll? I mean, fuck that! Hey, is that the shop?” Dean brought the car to a screeching halt by Johnny Standing Duck's souvenir shop. “I've got some words with that guy,” said Dean, snatching the kachina from its perch.

“Dean. I think the shop's closed,” said Sam.

Dean stood and gawped. Not only was the shop closed, it was in fact boarded up. And, judging from the dust, it had been that way for some time.

“I don't understand. He closed his shop since this morning?” asked Dean. “Hey!” he called to a guy across the roadway who was hauling out trash at the roadside diner there. “You know when Johnny Standing Duck is gonna be back?”

The guy stood up and grinned. “Not in our lifetime, man. Johnny died. Two, three years ago now.”

Dean looked at Sam, and then both looked back at the boarded up souvenir stand.

He turned to Sam and mouthed, “Fuck!”

 

The kachina swung rhythmically from the rearview mirror as the car thrummed across the rutted highway.

“Never, as long as you live, take the word of the ghost of a strung out drowned rock musician who heard it from a fucking mermaid!” muttered Dean.

“I'll remember that, Dean,” smiled Sam. “So, we're just gonna turn around and go?”

Dean sighed. “Cas sprained his whole body and we're cursed. Yeah, I think we had enough fun.”

“Is it time to stop and consume a meal?” asked a scratchy voice from the back.

“Hey, you're hungry, man?” asked Sam. 

“I believe so,” said Castiel, leaning forward with obvious discomfort. “What happened with the kachina doll? I thought-”

“Later,” Sam whispered to Cas, seeing Dean's furious expression. “Dude, let's stop at the next diner, you can get a burger. And I'll spring for pie!”

“You always say that,” groused Dean. 

“Come on. Cas is hungry. And we all missed lunch.”

“Yeah, yeah. That's the trouble with sandslugs!”

“Sandworms.”

“They ruin your lunch. I'll stop at the next truck stop,” said Dean.

“What was that?” asked Castiel, who was now looking around.

“What was what?” asked Dean, who was immediately answered by a thunder clap. “God dammit!” he roared as the downpour began almost immediately. “We gotta find safe turnoff.”

“DEAN!”

The car screeched to a halt. This time it was in front of them, still very far away, but approaching fast.

“Uwanammi,” said Sam.

“It's the fucking doll!” said Dean, grabbing the kachina. “I'm gonna-”

A bolt of electricity arced through the car. The kachina glowed orange as Dean, terrified, gripped it.

And then, as the three watched, there was a sense of building pressure. As the uwanammi swarmed forward at them, suddenly a great wind howled and blasted forward to meet it. It sent the monster reeling back, and suddenly turned the grey sky back to sunlight.

And then, silence again.

“Holy fuck,” said Sam. “That is one excellent doll!”

“Uh,” said Dean, weighing the doll in his hand. The glow had faded, and now it was only feathers and wood. He gave it a small toss and caught it. “I think I am starting to reevaluate my opinions regarding cursed dolls.”

Castiel stuck out a hand, and Dean gave him the doll. “It is clearly a magical object, but I believe its intentions are benign,” said Castiel. “And it appears Dean is the rightful owner, as Johnny Standing Duck came back from the dead to grant it to you.”

“Wait!” said Dean. “You were alseep for all that!” 

Castiel handed the doll back to Dean. “Yes, but his spirit visited me in my dream.”

“What? Did he tell you anything relevant?” asked Sam.

“He told us to say hi to Buckley Jones, as we are evidently destined to meet again,” yawned Cas. “Are we near a diner? I think a hamburger with french fries on the side would hit the spot. I will have ketchup with the french fries, and probably a slice of cheese added to the hamburger.”

“It's called a cheeseburger, Cas,” smiled Sam.

“I've got a cool doll,” said Dean, starting the car and hanging the kachina back on the rearview mirror.

 

“I have felt for some time that the wing is mended,” Cas told Bobby. “That is, the bones are healed. But when I have tried to use it, it causes a great deal of … pain,” he added. “I suppose I was just postponing the inevitable. I cannot function as an angel any longer.”

“Cas, you're full of shit,” said Bobby, who sat across from Cas at the picnic table outside.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don't know about mending fancy angel wings, but I know pretty damn well what happens when a human gets a busted leg: it hurts like balls the first time you use it. I mean, think about it: you may be magical and all that crap, but you just plain ain't been using those muscles for a while, have you?”

“No.”

“Well, seems like you flew a fucking Impala, you can fly yourself. That car's heavy as a damned tank. Now, what you need to do, you need to go into your true form every day and … I don't know. Flap or flutter or whatever the fuck you do. And it's gonna fucking hurt for a while, but then it'll get better. Maybe slowly, but you're eternal and all that hogspit, so ain't like you haven't got the time.”

Castiel's eyes seemed to go out of focus, as if he were reaching somewhere else. “Maybe.... Maybe you are right, Bobby. I.... I didn't dare hope.”

“Don't get mushy on me,” scolded Bobby, who really hadn't the patience for weeping angels.

“I won't,” whispered Castiel. 

Bobby rolled his eyes at Dean, who had been standing quietly in back of the room. “I'm gonna go get drunk,” he said, stepping out.

Dean sat down on the bench next to Castiel. He put a hand on the angel's back. “Good news, huh?”

“I promised.... I promised Bobby I wouldn't express emotion,” whispered Castiel.

“Hey, I think it's OK in this case,” said Dean, rubbing his hand up and down Castiel's back. 

Castiel turned, breathing hard. He smiled and lightly touched Dean's cheek. Then, seemingly reluctantly, he took his hand away and started to stand.

“Cas,” said Dean, now gently holding Cas down.

Castiel looked over at him. Dean recognized the look of pure terror. “Dean,” he said, looking away again. “I read minds. You know that. I don't.... I try not to pry. With my friends. But you have been rather … obvious lately.”

“What's wrong with obvious?” asked Dean.

“Nothing.” The look had turned from abject terror to sadness. “What you intend to do…. You will likely be … disappointed.”

Dean stared at him. “You haven’t ever, have you?”

Castiel sadly shook his head and cast his eyes downward.

“Well, that’s good,” said Dean, leaning in closer. 

“What could possibly be good about inexperience?”

Dean smiled. “Because. I want to be the one.”

Cas was still looking away. “You’ve always been the one,” he said quietly. He looked up. “You’ll always be the one.” And then Dean was kissing him. And he was letting Dean kiss him. And he didn't know what to do, or where his hands should go or whether he was doing OK or whether anything would ever be the same again. Now that he wasn't sentenced to be a human, here he was trying to act like one. It was all stupid. And wrong.

Dean was on his feet, pulling Cas up. “Come on. Inside.” Cas was confused, and it didn't help that his vessel was aroused.

No. He was aroused. Castiel was the one walking inside with Dean Winchester, his human charge, and the one who kissed him and then gave Dean a little push so he sat down heavily on the bed. And then the one who climbed on top of him and began kissing him again and wresting off his shirt.

“Cas? Oh, fuck yeah,” a very surprised Dean managed to mutter. He writhed as Castiel slowly kissed his way down Dean's torso and began unzipping his jeans. 

“Don't stop,” said Dean, kicking off his jeans. And then Cas had his mouth on him, Dean's fingers now twisted in his hair. “Don't stop,” Dean repeated as Cas used mouth and tongue, and then Cas' hands gripped Dean's perfect ass, and then his fingers were prying into Dean as the moans turned to cries and the writhing was now a barely controlled thrashing. And Castiel hadn't done this before with a real human being, but he could sense something was going to happen, and then Dean blurted, “O god Jesus Christ” and came, hot and sticky, in Castiel's mouth, and the writhing slowed and stopped.

Castiel wiped his mouth on a sleeve: funny, he had just realized he was still wearing all his clothes. He didn't think this was how it was supposed to go, but he wasn't certain. He slid upwards, and Dean, who was still breathing hard, yanked him up and pulled him close.

“Oh, god, you're gonna kill me. You are gonna kill me,” said Dean.

Cas slid up on one elbow, on Dean's bare chest, looking concerned now. “Is that.... Is that good?”

“That's a good thing,” breathed Dean, who pulled him closer, kissing the top of his head. “Oh yeah. That's a very good thing.”

 

Castiel walked into the theater and sat down beside his brother Gabriel.

The theater was all in his head. As he was dreaming.

“So, what do we say?” asked the archangel.

“Thank you for the pornography, brother. It has proved … educational.” Castiel smiled.

“Aw, anything for my little bro!” said Gabriel, clapping Castiel on the back. “You're a man now! You've bagged your first Winchester.”

“Please don't say it like that,” said Castiel, blushing.

“Now, what's on the menu tonight? I have Assman: the Dark Dick Rises, or maybe Butt Avengers? Or if you wanna bring in some girls next time, I have Tit Wars, or Cum with the Wind, that's a classic chick flick.”

“Uh, that won't be necessary,” muttered Castiel. “Uh, yet.”

“You know, Cas, I like you as a human.”

“That's funny. Dean has said the same thing.”

“You got the stick out of your ass. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing to have in your ass. Oh, speaking of which, The Amazing Spider-Dick!” said Gabriel, proudly holding up a DVD.

“Let me guess: this person has eight, er, members?”

“And it’s in 3D!” enthused Gabriel, handing Castiel some glasses.

“Well. OK,” said Castiel, donning the 3D glasses. “By the way, Dean also once told me that it's, uh, not appropriate to watch pornography in the presence of other men.”

“Aw, well, maybe you're not the only one with a stick up your ass. Popcorn? Though maybe we can get something better up Dean's ass.”

Castiel peered at the screen as he ate buttered popcorn from a cardboard bucket. “Oh, he can stick to walls … that way?”


	6. Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from an old acquaintance; Cas drinks too much tea; and the gang goes swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter.
> 
> See? I say penultimate.

Title: Feather (Household Objects, Chapter 6 of 7)  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Author: tikistitch  
Rating: R (yes, really, don't read at work)  
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas (yep, it’s here folks); Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death  
Warnings: Cursing.  
Word Count: 6600 (this chapter), 35,000 total.  
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?  
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a weird tiki take on it. And kindly pay attention to the individual chapter ratings, as there is some NSFW material here.

 

The ’67 Chevrolet Impala introduced Positraction, a limited slip differential. 

Castiel, his head deep in the car’s magnificent V8 327 engine, paused for a moment in his work to contemplate mankind.

This creation, of course, was nothing compared to the wonders wrought by the Lord, his Father. And yet, with all their eons, what had His other children, the angels ever accomplished? This car was a small feat of engineering, assuring you would not slip when traveling over ice.

Humans amazed him. Sometimes.

“You should have come to me sooner, my feathery friend!”

Castiel sighed at the unmistakable sound of Crowley’s unctuous voice. He slowly extricated himself from the engine block, straightening up to look the demon in the eye.

“We could trade. Your good wing for … something nice,” grinned Crowley as Castiel wiped the grease from his hands on a rag.

“So, you know I'm grounded,” said Castiel, who began to insert his tools into the cloth holder.

“Everybody knows, mate. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Who exactly is everybody?” asked Castiel, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, I know. And that’s like alerting the media. So they have you working as their grease monkey now?” he smiled as Castiel ran an arm over his grimy forehead.

“Dean says if I’m to drive the car, I should learn elementary maintenance principles.”

Crowley made a big show of surveying the engine. He wrinkled his nose. “You’re a Winchester chauffeur now?” he vamped, hand dramatically to his head. “I always thought you were simple. Blimey, do you have any idea what you are? You should be the one with a driver. And you in the back with a bunch of showgirls with big tits.”

Crowley suddenly hopped back as Cas let the hood fall. “Hey, you nearly got me nose!”

“And you are asking for my wing,” said Castiel. He frowned. “What use to you is an angel wing, anyway?”

“What use to me? Well, you know me, I am merely a middle man in all of this,” Crowley hedged.

Castiel collected his tools and proceeded silently over to a workbench set up under an awning. Crowley followed him. 

“What about a feather or two, then? Not doing you any good, now is it?” asked Crowley.

“You want to pluck me?” asked Castiel, setting his tools on the workbench.

“Well, I assume you could pluck yourself. Or maybe have a certain Winchester do it, know what I mean?”

Castiel turned to Crowley. “No. I do not know what you mean. Why don't you explain the reference?”

“Don't get your wings up at me!” grumbled Crowley. 

Castiel squinted at Crowley and then, without a word, pointed upwards.

“Fucking...” sputtered Crowley, looking up at the devil's trap painted on the underside of the awning. “You fucking feathered wanker!”

Castiel said something to Crowley, and then started to walk off.

“What was that? Was that Enochian?” asked Crowley.

“I just wished you a very itchy and disruptive molt,” smiled Castiel.

“Oh. You'll have to teach me that one. Are you coming back?”

“At some point. It is now my dinnertime.”

“Well. Could you at least bring me some cheese toast? And maybe a spot of tea? Tell Bobby none of that Lipton crap!”

 

Bobby had set up a card table outside. They had brought a folding chair for himself, and one for Crowley.

Dean, Sam and Castiel gathered around as well. 

“You know, I’m not going to dash away if you release me from the trap,” sighed Crowley. “I came to talk.”

“I kept Zachariah out here for two days. And never brang a chair. Consider yourself lucky, demon,” grumbled Bobby, pouring out a shot for Crowley.

“Is this rotgut?”

“Yeah. It’s rotgut,” said Bobby, downing his own shot.

“Well, when in Rome,” mused Crowley, who tossed back his own. He rolled it around in his mouth, and then held out his glass for another.

“Crowley, what’s up with the demon angels?” asked Dean.

“Now, Dean, wrap your tiny simian brain about this: if I had any idea – any scrap of an idea – would I be sitting in a foul junkyard drinking battery acid? Or would I be frolicking in triumph?”

“You really got no idea?” asked Bobby.

“Amongst other things, the blighters are now extinguishing my minions. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get good minions these days?”

“Nothing more than what you’ve done yourself,” said Sam. “Why the vengeful mood?”

Crowley’s eternally cool demeanor suddenly turned dark. “When I find them, I will kill them. But first I will pluck their wings, feather by feather.”

“Crowley?” asked Castiel. “What is wrong?”

The demon, who was now literally shaking in anger, looked up at Castiel. He slammed down his shot glass. “The foul beasts injured Aloysius.”

“What the actual fuck is an Aloysius?” asked Bobby.

“Hellhound,” said Cas.

“Big fucking enormous hellhound,” added Dean. 

“You can’t imagine,” said Crowley, putting an agitated hand through his hair, “the pained look on his sweet face, the pleading of his coal red eyes.”

“Is he, um, alive, Crowley?” asked Sam.

Crowley sighed, and Bobby poured him more whiskey. “He has a badly broken leg. But, he will survive. To chew on the bones of those bloody buggers.” Crowley breathed hard for a time, and then seemed to master himself. “You said…. You said Zachariah was here?”

“He sought our assistance,” said Castiel.

“They wanted help from a broken angel?” asked Crowley.

“Pot. Kettle. Black,” said Bobby.

“I do not fully understand it either,” Castiel confessed. 

“I thought you bloody angels were behind all this!” said Crowley.

Castiel smiled bitterly. “You probably comprehend better than I the machinations of my brothers and sisters.”

“Yes, you were always too damned pure for heaven,” said Crowley.

“Crowley,” said Bobby, “you heard something, you tell us. We can’t go avenge your damned dog if you leave us in the dark.”

Crowley looked shrewd. “I have heard there is some kind of squabbling going on within heaven's senior management.”

“Eh, when are angels not backbiting?” sighed Bobby.

“No,” said Castiel. “Actually, it is unusual that there would be dissension within senior management. There is much wing-biting, of course, but they customarily present themselves to the outside as a united front.”

“What’s the issue this time, Crowley? They all want corner offices?” asked Dean.

“They are those, or so I have heard, who are not pleased with the continued domination of the archangels.”

“No. That’s impossible,” said Castiel.

“Well, you can’t argue, those boys have caused some mischief these past few years, Cas,” said Bobby.

“The archangels speak directly to the Lord, our Father,” said Castiel.

“One has to admit, they've been getting some mixed messages of late,” said Crowley.

“Still, you always defer to the archangels,” said Castiel. “That is absolute.”

“Oh, like you did with Lucy? And Raphael?” asked Bobby.

“But I’m…. I’m not like the others,” said Castiel.

“So, my best buddy Zach, is he pro-arch or anti-arch? Or just biding his sweet fucking time?” asked Dean.

“No bloody idear,” said Crowley.

“Well, Crowley” said Bobby, grabbing a knife from the workbench. He climbed up on his chair and scraped a hole in the devil's trap painted up on the awning. “It's been real.”

“Thank you for sharing this appalling liquid substance,” said Crowley, who stood up. “You find the blokes who hit my Aloysius, and I'll bring you a case of the good stuff. Hell, I'll bring the distillery and set it up on the grounds!” 

“Crowley. One more thing,” said Castiel. “You never told me what you would do with my wing?”

“Your what?” asked Bobby. “Crowley, what are you up to?”

“Oh, the wing would go to a very … select clientele,” said Crowley. 

“Yes?” urged Castiel.

“Demonic, strictly,” said Crowley, who was looking away, as if slightly embarrassed. “There are those of my kind who believe they may gain power by, as it were, having a little barbecue?”

There was a slight pause. “Ewwww!” said Dean, as the realization hit him.

“Oh god! They snack on holy hot wings?” asked Sam.

“Yes. Never did anything for me. But, I am just a crossroads demon, not a food critic. At any rate, good day,” said Crowley, who was gone in a whiff of sulfur.

“That? That is just gross!” said Dean.

“It is worrisome,” said Castiel. “If it is true, then the beings who injured me have only become more powerful in the meantime.”

“Meaning we need to figure this shit out,” said Bobby.

“I need to think on this,” said Castiel, who headed off.

 

Castiel stretched out his broad wings, and then reeled in pain.

He was sitting, true formed, in the middle of some lovely but deserted rolling hills. It wasn't terribly far from Bobby's, as he didn't currently get around terribly well, but far enough for solitude. He had thought the isolation would do him some good.

His injured wing throbbed. It seemed like it burned from shoulder out to the tip of his primary feathers.

But he stretched and flexed, stretched and flexed.

At first even the slightest motion had caused him crippling pain. Even though his bones were mended, the muscles and tendons around them remained weak and delicate.

Now there was the joyful sense of life coming back to the damaged tissue, the healthy newness flushing it out. But combined with searing pain.

He sat back, tears in his eyes.

It had gotten better. But it was often excruciating. And exercising the wing, as Bobby had suggested, was awfully boring.

And despite his efforts, he was still weak and nearly flightless. Castiel was an eternal being, and so had the patience of the eons. But it was vexing now, when his powers could have come in useful, to find himself sidelined. He wondered, not for the first time, about leaving the Winchesters for the duration, although he still had no idea where he might go to. Perhaps Gabriel had a place? But then he would call to mind Bobby’s warning about what would happen if Sam or Dean were injured or killed in his absence.

He set himself to flex and extend once again.

His mind drifted again to the morning’s conversation, if only to keep his mind off the pain. Who would have thought a monster like Crowley would have a soft spot for that ridiculous hellhound? On the other hand, it was worrying that Crowley, too, appeared caught unawares of the scheming. And doubly worrying that the mysterious creatures might be gaining power through their assassinations  
.  
That was probably why Castiel, distracted by worry and hurt, did not sense the creatures until they were nearly upon him.

He gulped, fighting down his terror. He recognized them, but found he did not know them. The one vaguely resembled a bird, although it had four wings. The other, larger one looked like nothing as much as a stone gargoyle, although obviously it was many times bigger. It had six wings, Castiel noted, so it was probably a seraph, one of the most powerful heavenly messengers.

The odd thing was, despite ten wings among the two, neither seemed to fly terribly well. It wouldn't have been anything a civilian would have noticed, but the big one seemed unstable, and the littler (or less big) one seemed to be putting in way too much effort. Indeed, when Castiel looked closely at their wings, they seemed a bit ratty, as if both were experiencing a rather painful molt.

“Oooo, little bird, little broken bird!” said the smaller one as it landed.

“Brothers,” said Castiel quietly. He was determined not to show fear.

“We are not brothers,” rumbled the bigger one, who seemed (to Castiel) to quite nearly topple over as he landed. 

“Can I pull his wings off this time? Can I? Can I? Oh, we’ll make him squeal,” chirped the littler one.

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Castiel. “I am angelkind, like you.”

“We are not angels,” said the bigger one. “And we are not kind.”

“I am Castiel.”

“We know we know we know,” said the littler, eager one. 

“And you are…?”

“What is wrong with this one? Is he stupid?” asked the smaller, flappy one.

“I am Arstikapha,” growled the big one. “He is Yetarel. We are your doom.”

“Maybe I should be the judge of that. Who is and is not my doom,” said Castiel. He was imagining himself right now screaming in pain, his wings ripped from his body. But he thought it best to keep them talking. He didn’t have any other plan, and truly, he didn’t have much hope.

“You don’t get to choose,” babbled Yetarel. “He doesn’t get to choose. Can I pull his wings off now? Can I can I?”

“Why do you need to ask him?” Castiel asked Yetarel. “Why don’t you just do what you please?”

“Shut up, thing! Shut up shut up!” said Yetarel, suddenly putting a pair of clawed hands on his head where Cas assumed his ears were.

“Yes, go and tear his wings off,” said Arstikapha. “I said… You dumb shit.” He reached over and pulled Yetarel’s hands off his ears. “I said go get his wings, idiot!”

Castiel looked down. As it had so many times the past weeks, the magical katana had shown up in his hand. Oddly enough, it had scaled up in size for his true form. He wondered who the human magician had been who enchanted it: despite his fear, he thought that they had done an awfully good job.

Knowing he must look a trifle ridiculous against these monsters, Castiel nonetheless held out the sword. Yetarel swiped at him, but then, to Castiel’s utter surprise, the bird-like angel reeled back, clutching a claw to him.

“He has a pointy! Oh, Arstikapha! He used a pointy on me! I stuck my claw! The little birdie stuck my claw.”

“You fucking idiot,” grumbled Aristikapha.

“Get the fuck away from him, bitches!”

The ground shook, as it often did with the arrival of an archangel.

“Oh, what now?” rumbled Arstikapha.

“Gabriel,” whispered Castiel, who never in his long life expected to be so grateful about seeing his often obnoxious older brother.

“Nobody fucks with my baby brother!” proclaimed Gabriel, who looked very spiffy in his six-winged true form. “Nobody but me, that is. And certain sexy human hunters. But no matter!” He held up his angelic flaming sword. “Who’s first to be skewered today, gentlemen?”

Arstikapha and Yetarel shared a look. A very nasty look.

“Arch wings. We feast on archangel wings today,” grinned Arstikapha.

And then their eyes – which didn’t look terribly nice on a good day – suddenly switched to a shiny liquid black.

“What the fuck?” asked Gabriel, who looked slightly fazed.

“Gabriel! Watch out!” yelled Castiel. But they were both upon him. Castiel heard the snap as one broke Gabriel’s flaming sword over his knee, and then the crunch of breaking bones.

To the end of his life, which was a long one, Castiel had no idea why he did what he did just then. It was probably pure desperation. 

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” he screamed. And his voice, to his own surprise, caused the entire valley to shake. Arstikapha and Yetarel looked up in surprise. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it was all Cas needed. He was small, but he was quick. Though it hurt like hell, he was over on Gabriel in an instant, clinging to the bigger archangel, and then, with every scrap of magic left in him, he jumped.

 

Dean Winchester had just settled down for the Dr. Sexy MD season 4 finale. He had all the requirements: plenty of cheap beer, a large meat lover’s pizza, and a ginormous bowl of hot buttered popcorn. And he had just chased away anyone else who might possibly dare to go near the TV remote control with threats of great bodily harm. He had just sat back on the couch seeking the perfect spot to situated his ass when his lap was suddenly filled with not one but two falling angels.

As this defied several laws of physics, all three persons ended up toppling from the couch, upsetting pizza cartons and beer bottles.

“Help us!” pleaded Castiel.

“Castiel?” said Dean. “What the fuck? Is that … Gabriel?”

Gabriel didn’t reply, but only moaned. Dean and Castiel wrestled him onto the couch.

“What in blazes-?” demanded Bobby, who had decided he needed to intrude on the stupid doctor show viewing party when his entire house had just shaken like an earth tremor. “Jesus, is that Gabe?”

Castiel was kneeling next to Gabriel, his hands entwined with those of the semiconscious archangel. “I was in my true form,” Cas whispered, so quietly Bobby and Dean needed to lean in to hear. “I was exercising my injured wing, as Bobby advised me. And the two – the two demonic angels – surprised me. They would have killed me, but Gabriel showed up. He saved my life.”

“Well…. Shit,” said Dean.

“Damn, Cas,” said Bobby. “I never reckoned you’d be vulnerable like that. I nearly got you killed.”

“It’s all right, Bobby,” whispered Castiel.

“Is Gabriel OK?” asked Dean.

“He is badly injured. I am pretty sure they broke two of his wings.” Castiel cleared his throat.

“Two?” asked Bobby. “How many has he got?”

“Gabriel is of the seraphim. He has six wings,” whispered Castiel.

“And what happened with your voice?” asked Dean.

“I don’t know. I shouted at them. I have never shouted so loud,” said Castiel, now barely audible.

“Baby bro has a voice like a foghorn. I always said,” muttered Gabriel. He put a hand on Castiel’s cheek and smiled up at him.

“Gabriel?” said Castiel. But the archangel seemed to slip out of consciousness.

“So I take it he’s out of commission until he’s mended?” asked Dean.

Castiel started to speak, but then held his throat and just nodded.

“Well, I hate to be a dick, but I am runnin’ out of extra bedrooms for wounded supernaturals,” Bobby told them.

“He will have my bed,” Castiel rasped. He nodded to Dean, who helped him carry Gabriel out of the living room and up the stairs to the room Castiel had been sleeping in.

Bobby watched them go.

“What the fuck just happened?” asked Sam, who had just run in, breathless, from outside.

“Bobby Singer Goddam Memorial Hospital for Broken Supernatural Critters just admitted a new patient,” sighed Bobby, who was attempting to pick up pizza cartons.

“Who?”

“Gabriel. Got not one but TWO busted wings,” said Bobby, holding up two fingers.

Sam smiled wryly. “I know I shouldn't, but you know what I just thought?”

“Really big shoebox?” asked Bobby. 

“And a-”

“Hot water bottle,” Bobby finished.

The two men grinned at each other.

 

Castiel cleared his throat and looked uncertainly at the rather gigantic, steaming mug Bobby had placed before him.

“Go on,” urged Bobby. “Drink your damn tea.”

Castiel sniffed at the witches' brew. “Does this contain alcohol?” he whispered.

“It's got Lipton tea, bee's honey, a squeeze of lemon, and just a dash of whiskey. The good stuff!”

“Precisely how much constitutes a dash?” rasped Castiel.

“Drink!” ordered Bobby. 

Castiel obeyed, taking a healthy sip. He immediately began coughing.

“Will put hair on your chest!” promised Bobby, slapping the angel's back. Castiel coughed some more and looked extremely dubious, but continued to sip at the concoction.

“How is Gabe?” asked Bobby.

“Quietest I've ever seen the Trickster,” said Dean.

“I think I need to get a hotel room,” sighed Sam.

“What?”

“I'm sleeping in a house with Mamie LaRue and the fucking Trickster?” said Sam.

“Gabriel did save my life, Sam,” said Castiel.

“Yeah, I know, Cas,” said Sam. “Sorry, dude.”

“You recall anything useful, Cas?” asked Bobby.

“The two are Arstikapha and Yetarel,” said Castiel. He coughed, and Bobby waved at the tea, so he took another sip.

“How the heck do you spell that?” asked Sam, opening his laptop.

“Unfortunately, I only know in Enochian.” choked Castiel. “I do not know them. I believe they were among the first of the fallen. I was.... I was young at the time.”

“Not much out there,” said Sam, who was still tapping away at his laptop.

“There is one other strange thing. The magical sword,” said Castiel. “It appeared for me, as it has.... It injured Yetarel.”

“Well, it is a sword,” said Dean. “It’s got a pointy part!”

“But the two easily broke Gabriel's archangel sword!” said Castiel. He choked, so Bobby urged him drink more tea. Castiel downed another gulp, which left him a little cross-eyed. 

“You can break those things?” asked Dean.

“I’d never heard of such a thing,” sighed Bobby.

“Neither had I,” admitted Castiel.

“You think 'cause your sword was man-made?” asked Dean. Castiel nodded, held his throat, and pointed to Dean.

“Might be useful,” said Bobby.

“Hey! You know who might know about that,” said Dean. “Buckley Jones!”

“Oh, god, not that burnout again,” sighed Sam.

“Aw, c’mon Sammy! He’s a rock legend!”

“Guy couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a GPS,” grumbled Bobby.

“He knew about my cool doll!” said Dean.

“And he almost got us killed in the desert. After he almost drowned Cas!” Sam pointed out.

“Look, it's worth a shot. Unless you're getting the answer from your Tumblr!” said Dean.

Sam looked guilty and closed his laptop. 

“My brother is a 14 year old girl,” tutted Dean. “Come on. It's getting late, so we'll go out first thing tomorrow.”

 

Castiel threw a pillow and blanket onto the couch, and then sat down heavily. He blinked as if he was having trouble focusing his eyes.

He perceived an ongoing problem with the floor in Bobby's house. It seemed resistant to remaining stationery tonight.

“How's Gabe?” asked Dean.

“He's, uh, resting,” said Castiel, scowling at the floor. He got up, a bit unsteadily, and leaned over as if to spread out the blanket. But the floor lurched again, and he overbalanced, and would have fallen, had not Dean caught him.

“Whoa! What are you doing?” asked Dean.

“I will sleep on the couch tonight!” rasped Castiel, who somehow did not feel all inclined to extricate himself from Dean's arms. “So Gabriel will have my room.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” grinned Dean.

“Why not?”

“Why not? God has given me a drunken angel, and I'm supposed to let you sleep out here?”

“I'm not drunk!” protested Castiel, who followed this statement with a very loud hiccup. He stared at Dean, looking mortified.

Dean slowly lowered himself and Cas to the couch. “No, of course you're not.” He leaned Castiel back and kissed him. “And your voice doesn't sound at all sexy like that, either.”

“Like.... Like what?” whispered Castiel, who followed with another hiccup. He was trying to focus his thoughts, but they all seemed to run into a scenario in which Dean slowly peeled off all his clothing. He opened his mouth slightly to enjoy the feel of Dean's tongue in his mouth, and shifted to let Dean run a hand under his shirt.

“Hey! What are you kids up to?” yelled Sam.

“I'm molesting an angel,” Dean yelled back.

“Oh,” said Sam, who was standing there, hair dripping wet, a towel draped around his waist.

“You manage to avoid Mamie?” asked Dean.

“Yeah. Bobby covered up all the bathroom mirrors.”

“That's good.”

“It makes shaving a fucking pain,” said Sam, rubbing his chin. “Anyway, I'm headed for bed. Bobby set me up a cot downstairs in the panic room. That place is warded against anything!”

“We're going to bed too. In a minute,” said Dean, who was wrestling one of Cas' legs around himself.

“I think we are going to have sexual relations,” explained Castiel.

“Oh. Well, if you do, could you guys move it to a bedroom? I sit on that couch,” yawned Sam. “G'night.” 

“Dean, I don't know if this is a good idea,” said Cas once Sam had wandered off downstairs. Dean's hands seemed to be everywhere. Castiel tried to remember how many hands humans were supposed to have. He looked at his own hand and counted to five. Five! No, wait, that was fingers.

“Hmmmm?” asked Dean, running a hand down Cas' thigh.

“I can't remember … what to do. I'll do something wrong.” Dean pushed himself back. “What if I don't please you?” asked Cas.

“Where is this coming from?” asked Dean.

“My brain, I think,” said Castiel. “Though I think all my blood's gone to my dick by now.”

“OK, whatever Bobby put in that tea he gave you?” said Dean, rising up and pulling Cas up with him.

“Yes?” 

“We gotta get him to make a bigger batch next time.”

Cas hiccuped. Dean half carried him upstairs to the bedroom, and then dumped him on the bed as Cas desperately tried to recall which item from Gabriel's extensive library of pornography best suited this occasion.

“Come on. Just lay back,” Dean urged. Castiel's hands didn't seem to function for things like unbuttoning or unzipping right now, but Dean more than made up for it, and Cas found that very quickly they were both naked. Yes, this seemed to be going better than the last time already Castiel thought approvingly. Everything seemed slightly too fast or too slow.

“Damn, you're flexible,” Dean was muttering. 

“Is that good?” Cas inquired. He was on his back, one leg slung over Dean's shoulder, looking up, behind himself, hands grasping for something – anything – to grip. Muscles he had never used, nerves that had never fired before. Sex was crazy. An utterly crazy stupid thing to do. How had he never done this before? 

And then he heard a familiar sound, as Dean thrust into him once again. The human sexual climax. Yes, he had done it right, it was OK. And he hadn't done much more than let Dean touch him.

“Are you OK?” Castiel asked after Dean had pulled out and tossed away the condom and then slid up right next to him for a nice kiss. “Was that OK?”

Dean laughed, and Castiel's heart tightened. “I should be asking you,” said Dean. “It was all OK. Really. More than OK. And besides, you're drunk. That means you don't have to worry about it.”

“Oh,” said Castiel. Because he did worry. He would remember that rule.

“Come on now. Come right here,” said Dean.

“We're not done?” asked Castiel, who was now worried again. 

“We're gonna do you. Come on.” Dean had leaned back onto a pile of pillows, and Castiel allowed Dean to pull him into his lap. Dean had put something on his hands, and then started to touch him. Cas squirmed.

“Come on, relax, you're drunk,” murmured Dean, now nuzzling Castiel's neck. But Cas wasn't. Not any more. Somehow, Dean's touch was like an electrical current. Cas was suddenly back in sharp focus. It was like exercising his damaged wing: every nerve in his body was suddenly on fire. The intensity of it. He wanted to cry out, but his voice was still in shreds. His entire body stiffened, and he felt a thrill, like when the angels were attacking. He was flying the Impala across a canyon, praying for his life, and falling, his wing breaking. He was drowning.

He was....

He was...

His body bucked. 

Slowly, his breathing came back to normal, and he was lying in Dean Winchester's arms, being kissed on the neck, tears flowing freely. He gasped, his thoughts flicking away like so many little fireflies.

“Dean?”

He felt something in his hand. A Kleenex.

He brought it up to his face, and blew his nose.

He felt Dean spasm wordlessly. There was another Kleenex. “Uh. This one to wipe up,” said Dean carefully. 

“Oh.”

“Cas?” 

“Yeah?”

“You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You are.”

Castiel froze. 

Well.

That sounded positive.

 

Castiel leaned over the front seat of the car. “I believe I had too much of Bobby's remedy tea last night,” he said, rubbing his head.

“I think you had exactly enough to drink last night,” grinned Dean.

“Have we found him yet? Jockley Bones?” asked Castiel, rubbbing his muzzy head.

“Buckley Jones,” smiled Sam. “And, yeah, Bobby's home remedy is powerful stuff.”

“What was that?” asked Castiel, suddenly leaning back.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “OK, Cas, every time you say that, something fucked up happens.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. Should I not say that any more?”

“No, just…” started Dean. They had just reached the park. It was not a pleasant day this time. In fact, the weather looked quite threatening. “Let’s get a few things out of the trunk before we pay Buckley a visit, yeah?” said Dean as he turned off the ignition.

“Uh, I think you’re right,” said Sam.

Dean poked at the little kachina doll that was hanging from the mirror. He looked at it for a moment, and then grabbed it and stuffed it in a pocket. “You’re coming too, pal,” he said.

It was looking grim outside, with storm clouds on the horizon.

“Uh,” said Sam. “Does this remind anyone else of a really dumb horror movie?” 

“Oh, you mean like when there’s a swarm mutant piranha, or a killer shark or a giant crocodile in the lake, so everybody goes for a swim?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, that one.”

“So, let’s go for a swim!” grinned Dean.

“Yeah, I thought he’d say that,” grumbled Sam.

“Come on! We’re as genre savvy as anyone. We just stay far away from the mutant crocodile, or whatever, and we oughta be fine.”

“Sure, sure,” said Sam. “You got a gun?”

“And a pointy thing,” said Dean, nosing around in the Impala’s trunk. “You want something deadly, Cas? We got holy water grenades, rock salt guns….”

Castiel held up his sword. 

“Oh, I didn’t see you bring that,” said Dean.

“I didn’t,” said Cas.

The two looked at each other. “We’re screwed, huh?”

Cas simply nodded. They decided to set up around the same barbecue pit they had used previously, as it was a safe distance from the lake, as well as any swarm of killer tuna that might lurk within. The wind had picked up, so the three stood around the bowl of various magic odds and sods, trying to shield it while Dean clicked his lighter and cursed.

“I swear, you’re worse than Bobby,” grumbled Sam.

“It’s not the easiest thing to light up myrrh in this weather! Myrrh doesn’t kindle!”

“What was that?” asked Cas.

“And you quit saying that!” said Dean.

“Sorry,” said Castiel.

“Uh, is it just me,” said Sam, “or are lakes not supposed to have a tide?”

All three turned to see the lake. Without warning (other than Cas’) the water level on the near shore had suddenly drained away a considerable amount.

“OK,” said Dean. “This is when in the horror movie some idiot walks down and looks in and gets his eye stabbed or something.”

“Whoa! Watch out!” shouted Sam. Quite suddenly, the water came rushing back. It swiftly overfilled the lake, and began surging up, towards the three men.

“Uhhhhh. Think we should run?” asked Dean.

“Did you bring a boat?” asked Sam.

“No!”

“Then … run!” shouted Sam.

They took off towards the parking lot, and higher ground. But the water seemed to speed as it climbed up the hill and, as he was the unlucky one in back of the pack, it knocked Dean from his feet. He tried scrambling to his feet in the mud, but just as he was reaching for something to grab on to, he felt something grip his ankle, and he was dragged under the now receding water.

“Dean!” yelled Sam.

“I’ll get him!” said Castiel, who turned and ran back into the water.

“Shit,” said Sam, who was standing next to the Impala. “Mutant piranhas for sure.”

The water was bloody freezing and murky as hell. Dean, as Castiel had before him, tried prying at the hand around his ankle, but had no better luck. He was starting to panic and running out of air when, like a guardian angel (because, let’s face it, that’s what he was) Castiel suddenly appeared and once again amputated Buckley’s hand, slicing through neatly with the sword. 

Dean immediately started to kick upwards, and Cas was just in back of him, but suddenly Cas disappeared. Dean, his lungs burning, forced himself to turn around. 

It was Buckley, but he seemed to have turned into some kind of multi-armed mutant lake monster. Castiel, caught in his iron grip, was slashing at his gripping hand, but as soon as he sliced through it, Buckley would just grow another arm and grip him tighter. The angel slashed frantically, but only seemed to get more tightly entangled. Buckley was starting to look like a bunch of seaweed with dozens of hands snaking out.

Dean desperately kicked for the surface, his lungs burning. He burst out of the water around where the barbecue pit had been located. Sam was there immediately.

“Gotta go back down! It’s got Cas!” Dean gasped.

“Shit! What do we do! Our guns won’t work under water.”

Dean suddenly felt something in his pants pocket. He dug out the kachina doll. “Come on buddy! Help us!” he told it.

Almost immediately a huge gust of wind blew past Sam and Dean and shot through the still receding waters. It was like a biblical epic movie: to Sam and Dean’s astonishment, the waters were blown all the way back to their normal level. There was a figure down below at the lakeside. He looked tangled up in seaweed.

“Cas!” yelled Dean. They hastened down to the wet and bedraggled figure. To Dean’s utter relief, as soon as he had him in his arms, Cas began choking, and then he turned over and retched up what seemed like half of the lake bottom.

“You all right?” asked Sam.

Still out of breath, Castiel only nodded.

“And see, you learned another human trick! Barfing!” grinned Dean.

Dean didn’t believe he had ever seen the angel actually roll his eyes before.

And then the nest of seaweed began to writhe. “Hey, it’s Buckley!” said Sam.

“Whoa,” said Dean. “Mutant rock star. That’s a new one.” He rooted around in the tangled mess to find where Buckley’s face was located. 

“Dudes…” came a moan.

“Buckley! Trying to drown our angel again. Not cool! Seriously not cool!” scolded Dean.

“Sorry, bud! I didn’t mean to!” whined Buckley’s ghost.

“Why the fuck, man! Why the fuck!” raved Dean.

“I was totally tripping! I must have smoked some bad shit, dude.”

“How in hell does a lake monster smoke?” Sam asked one in particular.

“Where did you get the stuff?” asked Dean.

“There were these two dudes….”

“Let me guess,” said Sam. “A big one and a tall one!”

“Hey, that’s the dudes! Those two dudes. Bad dudes. Whoa.”

“Can you pull yourself together?” asked Dean.

“I dunno dude! Your angel kinda smote my ass!”

“You tried to drown Dean!” hollered Castiel, who was up on his feet, his sword pointed at Buckley.

“Whoa!” said Buckley.

“It's OK,” said Dean, pulling Castiel back. 

“Nothing personal, bro!” said Buckley, who was sort of assembling into a human-shaped figure again, although he seemed to be lacking a limb here and there. “Whoa,” he said, lifting a body part from the mud, “did I always have two left feet?”

“They were angels,” said Sam.

“Hey, yeah, they were angel dudes. Only they didn't have the totally sparkly aura like your bud. They were all like, creepy and dark.”

“But you took drugs from them anyway?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, dude! They said they had good bud!”

“Can you tell us anything else about them?” asked Sam.

Buckley Jones, who had nearly reassembled himself, minus maybe a part or two, looked contemplative. “They were sick dudes, yeah.”

“Sick? Sick meaning cool or something?” asked Sam.

“No dude! Sick meaning sick. Like they'd been, you know, injured. You know, like that dude!” said Buckley, pointing a stump at Castiel.

“A broken wing?” asked Castiel.

“Yeaaaaaah! Broken angels. Hey, whoa,” said Buckley, “Here's my hand. Hey, anybody need a hand!” he laughed, reattaching it. “Well, I gotta hit it, bitches! Catch you on the flip side!” said Buckley, who was suddenly not there any more.

“Geez. What a douche,” said Dean.

Sam smiled and clapped his brother on the back.

“I do not understand it,” said Castiel. “I had noticed that the two who attacked me flew ineptly. But I do not see how they could continue flying in that state. I can barely move my wing.”

“Maybe the demonic possession strengthens them?” asks Sam.

“Possibly,” said Cas. “It's just....”

“What, Cas?” asked Sam.

“Nothing. I need to think on this.”

“How 'bout we stop for breakfast somewhere along the way,” offered Dean, starting to walk towards the car.

“Will there be pancakes?” asked Castiel, eyes full of hope.

“Yeah, and we can have them with maple syrup.”

“Actually, I think I prefer blueberry syrup,” Castiel confessed.

“What!” said Dean. “Well, then you can't be my friend any more.”

“Oh,” said Castiel, stopping dead, and crossing his arms.

“Hey I didn't mean-” started Dean.

“Well, if you are no longer my friend, this means you can no longer steal my toast, as you have in the past,” said Castiel, wagging a finger.

“Heh, he's got you there,” said Sam, who started to walk to the Car with Castiel.

“What! Wait, that wasn't stealing, that was a mistake!” protested Dean.

“You were supposed to share!” Castiel called back.

“Dean's just greedy,” Sam told Cas.

“I can't help it if he eats slow!” said Dean, going through his pockets. “Hey! I think I lost the car keys in the lake.”

“I still have my set,” said Sam, jingling his keys.

“Shotgun!” yelled Castiel.

“I did not steal that toast. I only borrowed it,” grumbled Dean, as he hurried along after them.


	7. Cheeseburger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I suppose you guys expected a final confrontation....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My kind thanks to folks who stopped to comment or add kudos. Your encouragement is greatly appreciated!

Title: Cheeseburger (Household Objects, Chapter 7 of 7)  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Author: tikistitch  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas; Sam, Bobby, Gabriel, Crowley, Zachariah, Death  
Warnings: Cursing, violence that may be upsetting (this chapter).  
Word Count: 6,500 (this chapter); 35,000 total  
Summary: When Castiel's true form is gravely injured during a battle with a strange malevolent entity he is forced to live for a time as a human. Fortunately, the Winchester boys are there, with driving instructions and pigs in a blanket. But is Cas inadvertently dragging his friends into a whole mess of angel danger?  
Notes: This isn't really anywhere logical on the timeline. I'm just gonna whistle a happy tune and pretend they didn't kill off a crapload of my favorite characters. Also, although this story falls under the genre of hurt/comfort, be warned it’s a pretty twisted take on it. 

 

Castiel stood back to survey his work. He readjusted the flower in the tiny vase, and wiped a microscopic speck off the glass of orange juice with the tail of his shirt.

And it was good.

And then he grasped the breakfast tray and headed out Bobby’s kitchen.

….and straight into Bobby.

“Whatcha doin’ there, Cas?” grinned Bobby, who did not make any effort go get out of the way.

“I’m delivering my brother’s breakfast.”

“I see that. Looks pretty tasty. You’re doin’ OK at learning to cook.”

“Oh, you think so?” blushed Castiel. “He likes his bacon just so.”

“Yep, I’m sure he does. I’m sure he does,” smiled Bobby. “I seen him. Having you run up and down doing his shit work for him.”

“Well, uh,” said Castiel. “Gabriel gets annoyed if his breakfast is cold,” he whispered, trying to get around Bobby.

“Well then let’s get it right to him!” said Bobby, reaching over to grab the tray away from Castiel.

“Er, Bobby. Gabriel is my superior. He's an archangel. I need…. I ought to do as he says.”

“Cas, right now, are you more angel, or would you say you’re more human?”

Castiel looked downcast. “Well, presently I’m kind of functioning as a human,” he admitted.

“And whose human house is this?” asked Bobby.

“Yours!”

“So, who’s your boss, now, kid?”

Castiel was silent for a moment. And then he smiled. “You are. Boss!” he said, happily handing the tray to Bobby.

“Now, you scat and go save the world, or whatever unimportant crap you’re doing, and I’ll take care of Mr. Archangel’s obviously pressing needs. Deal?”

Cas nodded and hurried away.

Bobby helped himself to a piece of bacon and wandered up towards Gabriel’s room. “Hmm. Boy can cook,” said Bobby approvingly.

Gabriel was sitting in bed, propped up on every pillow in the house, and ringing a little bell. “Castiel, you are three and a half minutes late…. Oh, hello, Bobby.”

“Up and at ‘em, asshole.”

“What?”

“I said move! Or you want a boot in your angelic butt?”

Gabriel slid out of bed, while Bobby hopped up onto the pile of pillows and began to dig into the breakfast.

“What are you doing?” sputtered Gabriel. “That’s my breakfast!”

“Maybe you’ll get breakfast,” said Bobby. “If you put in a day’s work.”

“How am I supposed to work! I’m recuperating!”

“I see you standing on two legs,” said Bobby. “Ah, hell, these eggs are good. He knows how to make ‘em over easy.”

“What the hell do you want me to do, you old fossil?”

“Old? Pot, kettle, asshole. Now, we're all mighty grateful for what you done for Cas, Gabe. However, seems like you’ve spent the past week ordering your brother around, maybe it would be nice to see you put in a little time yourself. Cas just dirtied up nearly every damn pan in my kitchen cooking this swank breakfast. Might be nice to see it all cleaned up.”

You could almost see the steam rising from Gabriel’s head. “I’m an archangel! Not chief cook and bottlewasher!”

“Oooo, an archangel. Well, why don’t you use your angelic sparkle magic and just wish everything clean?”

“I can’t use my magic! I saved Castiel! From certain death!”

“And that was real nice of ya. So it won’t be much trouble to clear up his breakfast dishes, right?”

Gabriel glowered. “I will not forget this!” he vowed, stalking out of the room.

“I hope not,” muttered Bobby. “And grab me some more jam!” he shouted after Gabriel.

 

“Gabe let you off early today?” joked Dean.

Cas leaned against the Impala and shrugged. “Bobby said he would take care of him.”

“Oh, I would love to see that,” laughed Dean, leaning back out of the car’s engine. “Hey, Cas, could you get over to the tools and grab me a number five socket wrench?”

Cas gave a small smile. He held up his hand, into which blinked a wrench.

“Hey, cool!” said Dean, grabbing the wrench. “You can do angel stuff again?”

“A little,” said Cas. “It’s slowly coming back.”

“Ah, but this is a number four, not a number five!” said Dean, pointing to the wrench. 

“Maybe it is best to stick to the human method for now,” grinned Castiel. 

“Hey, did you guys check out Gabriel?” asked Sam, who had just ambled out.

“What’s he up to now?” asked Dean

“Bobby had him wash up all the pots and pans, and now he’s down on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.”

Castiel grinned. “He will not like that.”

“Hey, are you enjoying this, Cas?” asked Sam.

Castiel’s face grew serious. “Gabriel is my elder brother. I love him. But … he can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Sam, slinging an arm around Dean.

“Hey,” said Dean.

Castiel was suddenly looking around. “Do you feel that?”

“No,” said Dean. “Hey, wait, has it gotten cold.” He blinked: suddenly he could see his breath.

Castiel was staring at something. “Cas, what is it?” asked Dean.

“I have never seen so many of them,” said Cas. “Oh!” And then Dean and Sam saw it as well.

Death. And he didn’t look pleased.

“Cas,” said Dean. “We’re surrounded by reapers. Aren’t we?”

“As far as the eye can see,” said Castiel.

Dean frowned and wiped the grease from his hands with a rag. He tossed down the rag and then strode over to face Death. Sam and Castiel followed him. The few times Dean had met the Horseman before, he'd been cool as a cucumber. But today he seemed to radiate cold fury.

“So, can I ask what's going on?” asked Dean.

“They are killing my children. My reapers!” said Death. “I found them … gutted.”

“You know who’s doing it?” asked Dean.

“Angels,” said Death, giving Castiel a stare. “Abominations!”

Castiel looked down, but Dean continued to stare at Death. The tall, pale man really did look ready to kill. “And, can I ask, why did you come to us?”

“Whenever anything happens – anything – it is always and inevitably you three!” said Death.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” said Dean, looking at Sam and Cas.

“They are Arstikapha and Yetarel,” said Castiel. “I did not know them. They have killed many of my brothers, and have gravely injured my brother, Gabriel.”

“Gabriel? The Trickster?” asked Death, whose already dark face darkened. One supposed he had had some unpleasant encounters with the often abrasive archangel.

“They’ve also gone against some of Crowley’s demons,” said Sam.

“Crowley thought it was some kind of angel bickering,” said Dean. “But we sure as hell can’t see the point,” said Dean. “To be honest, we’re kind of stuck. I didn’t know they’d go after reapers too.”

“What the fucking hell…?” yelled Bobby, who was hurrying out. “Oh. Shit,” he said, seeing Death. “This don’t look good.”

“I guess our wing-eating friends are now killing reapers,” said Dean.

“Damn,” said Bobby. “And, no offense, but you can’t just zap ‘em, Death?”

“My children are not designed to deal with these … things,” said Death.

“We been scratching our heads for weeks over this too,” said Bobby. “They took down an archangel, which I guess is unprecedented.”

“I see. And I do appreciate your honesty,” said Death, who seemed mollified. “So, how is our friend, Gabriel?” he inquired.

“Two broke wings,” said Bobby.

“Oh. And I take it you fellows have obtained a shoebox large enough to contain himself and his ego?” asked Death, arching an eyebrow.

Death might have smiled slightly. Bobby convulsed with laughter.

“I don’t understand,” Castiel told Dean. 

“I’ll explain it to you,” said Dean. “Later.”

 

Dean pushed back from the dinner table, picking his teeth with a toothpick. “Gabe,” he said, “I gotta admit, that was amazing.”

“And you didn't use any angel tricks?” asked Sam, who was holding his stomach.

“No, no grace was used! I spent time as a short order cook,” bragged the archangel, looking around with obvious pride at the remains of the elaborate dinner he had prepared. “Hey, didn't everybody?”

“Nope,” said Dean.

“Naw,” said Sam.

“Not me,” grinned Bobby.

Castiel didn't say anything, but simply shrugged at his brother.

“This kitchen might be lookin' a mite too pretty for this place,” grumbled Bobby, looking around the now sparkling room. “But that was a damn good feed. Now I just gotta call about a dozen of my closest friends to deal with the leftovers.”

“Were you going to explain the shoebox reference to me, Dean?” asked Castiel.

Dean, Sam and Bobby all began laughing, while Gabriel and Castiel exchanged a bewildered glance.

“See, if you're a kid....” began Dean

“A normal kid!” emphasized Sam.

“You see a baby bird fallen out of the nest....” continued Dean.

“You get your mom....” said Sam.

“They get you a little shoebox!” said Dean, holding out his hands to display the size.

“And you get a cloth....”

“And a little head pad....”

“Or a hot water bottle!” interjected Bobby.

“And then you nurse the little critter back to health,” said Dean.

“Or, uh, have a funeral in the back yard,” admitted Sam.

“Yeah, most times, yeah,” said Dean.

Castiel sat back. “Death was implying that my brother and I are akin to tiny birds?” asked Castiel, narrowing his eyes in what looked for all the world a threatening manner.

“Aw, don't worry baby bro!” said Gabriel, cuffing Castiel. “I'll go smite Death in his skinny ass when I get my mojo back.”

“But that's only if you grow up in a normal family,” continued Dean.

“Yeah, if it had been us....” said Sam.

“It would have been a werewolf climbing in the tree that knocked out the nest!” laughed Dean.

“The baby bird would have had an Inca curse,” said Sam.

“We would have used an ammo case instead of a shoebox!” said Dean.

“And warmed it up with a holy oil fire!” said Sam.

“Oh, uh, sorry guys,” said Dean, as Cas and Gabriel both cringed at the mention of holy oil.

“So you guys think your childhood was fucked up?” asked Gabriel.

“Yeah, you know, dysfunctional family,” said Dean.

“Every family is dysfunctional!” laughed Gabriel. “I mean, look at ours!” Dean noticed Castiel did something odd: he pulled his foot up on the seat and sat with his elbows wrapped around his knee. He suddenly looked young. 

“I wish you had not left us,” said Castiel softly.

“I didn't leave you, Cas,” said Gabriel. Castiel didn't answer, but looked hurt. “Awwww, c'mon, little guy,” said Gabriel, suddenly putting an arm around Castiel and giving him noogies. 

Castiel extricated himself from Gabriel's grasp. “You left. Just the same,” he said, bitterness tracing his voice.

Now it was Gabriel's turn to glare. “They wanted me to choose sides. Michael and Lucifer. You know how fucked up that is? I mean, what if you had to choose between Sam and Dean? Would you do it?”

Castiel stared primly at the brothers and then rounded on Gabriel. “They would never make me do it. They are better than that!”

Dean nearly blushed.

“Hey, is this your mirror, Sam?” asked Gabriel, who obviously wanted a change in topic.

Sam sighed deeply and pulled the mirror off the low shelf behind him. “I can't put it away. It follows me. Like a fucking cursed doll.”

“Hey, my cursed doll is cool!” said Dean.

“Can I see that?” asked Gabriel. Sam handed it over, and Gabriel emitted a low whistle. “Some advice? Don't let Crowley see it.”

“Why? 'Cause it's haunted?”

“No! Not just haunted. In fact, this is a very cool item. A little demonstration is in order. Bro,” he said, turning to Castiel, “could you spare some magic?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I guess. A small amount.”

“A little zap then,” said Gabriel, holding up Mamie's mirror. “Straight in the reflection,” he said, tapping the glass.

“I don't wish to break it,” said Castiel.

“Yeah, that's seven years bad luck,” said Dean.

“Don't worry. You won't!” Gabriel told Castiel.

Castiel shrugged and then put two fingers on the mirror and frowned.

There was a zap of magic. 

Then Cas shrieked and fell back, right out of his chair.

Dean, struggling mightily not to laugh, was around the table in an instant. “Cas, you OK, dude?”

“Reflects magic!” laughed Gabriel. “Very rare item!”

“Whoa,” said Sam, grabbing the mirror back. “This might actually be useful!”

Castiel wrestled himself up, the ends of his hair still smoking. “You knew.... You knew it would do that!”

“Yeah, once a Trickster- OW!” he exclaimed as Castiel punched him – hard – in the shoulder. “That hurt!”

“That felt … really good,” said Castiel, rubbing his fist.

“I've got itching powder if you want,” Dean whispered to Castiel.

“Castiel, you don’t wanna get into it with a Trickster,” said Gabriel.

“Bitch!” said Castiel.

“Jerk,” said Gabriel.

“OK, you two! Cut it out!” called Bobby. Castiel sat back down, glaring. “This is real funny, but it ain’t getting us any closer to what’s motivating those bastards,” said Bobby. “Or how to stop ‘em.”

“Oh, those two, they wouldn’t know a motivation if you crammed it up their asses,” grumbled Gabriel. “It’s like that movie were were watching the other night, baby bro.”

“Oh,” said Castiel, who colored.

“What movie?” asked Dean.

“Bat Dick: the Dark Nuts Return!” said Gabriel.

“Uh, you guys watch porn together?” Dean asked Castiel, who looked as if he might slip under the table.

“Had to get the DVD back to Netflix,” said Gabriel. “Anyway, like Alfredballs tells Bruce Bat Dick, some guys just wanna watch the world burn!”

“Oh, god, do we have to hear this after we’ve eaten?” sighed Sam.

“Wait,” said Castiel. “What did you say, Gabriel?”

“Some guys wanna watch the world burn?” asked Gabriel.

“I’ve been… I’m an idiot,” said Castiel.

“What, watching bad porno?” asked Dean. “I warned you about that.”

“No. Arstikapha and Yetarel. They do not have a motivation. Or if they once did, they do no longer. They are terrorists. They simply want to instill fear. And they are getting stronger and stronger as we wait here. Doing nothing.” Castiel rose. “I must find a way to stop them! Before it’s too late.”

“Whoa! Hold it right there!” said Dean, who moved over to stand in front of Cas. “Where the fuck you think you’re going!”

“Dean, we don’t have much time. If we wait any longer, they might be too strong to defeat.”

“Sit down!” ordered Dean.

“Oh, I love it when he takes command,” grinned Gabriel, grabbing Sam’s hand. 

Sam shook off the hand. “Just … stop.”

“Dean!” said Castiel.

‘You nearly got killed twice, and I know damn well you’re not up to full strength, or even near it,” said Dean. “You’re gonna do anything, you need a plan. And you need us!” he said, gesturing around the table.

“I can’t ask you to assist me,” said Castiel. “This is angel business.”

“We’re volunteering!” said Dean.

“I didn’t volunteer,” said Gabriel.

“You’re an angel, idjit,” said Bobby, whacking Gabriel over the head with his hand.

“Hey!” said Gabriel.

“And even better,” said Sam, “you’re a trickster.”

“I don’t have any of my bad magic though, bud,” said Gabriel.

“No, but you are an evil genius, right?” asked Sam slyly.

“That I am!” Gabriel agreed. He sat back. “OK, so how do a couple of broken angels and some pouty-lipped hunter boys….”

“Hey!” said Sam.

“…trick a couple of really big and stupid angels.”

“Hey, Cas,” said Dean.

“Yes?”

“Something I've been wondering. I asked you something the other night. What your brothers do with other angels who get busted wings?”

Castiel and Gabriel looked at each other. They were suddenly both quite serious.

“As I said, if the host is in a generous mood, you are killed. Immediately,” said Castiel.

“What?” asked Bobby. “And what if they ain't in a generous mood?”

Castiel started to reply, but then looked down. Gabriel reached out and put a hand through his hair. “Cannon fodder, basically,” said Gabriel.

“What?” asked Dean.

“If you get zapped, it must be your fault, after all, because the father isn't pleased with you for some fucking reason,” said Gabriel. “So, they'll use you for sword practice....”

“Torture,” whispered Castiel. “Experiments....”

“Experiments?” asked Sam. “What kind of experiments.”

Castiel looked up at Gabriel. “Like, putting a demon inside?” he asked softly.

Gabriel suddenly seized his dinner plate and sent it crashing into the wall. It shattered into a million pieces. “My fucking brothers! I'm gonna go up to fucking heaven with a gallon of fucking holy oil and burn the whole fucking place down!”

“First we shall stop the two who injured us,” Castiel told Gabriel. “I believe I have an idea. And I will need your help.”

 

Castiel laid out his hands. He didn't have a big supply of angelic grace to spare, so he needed to be careful. But this? This was important.

He took off his hands.

“Hey, how's it going?” asked Dean.

Castiel picked up his trench coat. The tear made by the _kasa obake_ was gone.

“It's a miracle!” laughed Dean.

Castiel donned the coat. Grinning, Dean straightened out his lapels. “We're gonna win this one. No way they can defeat the trench coat!”

Castiel smiled. “And how is the, uh, experiment, going?”

“Come and see the prototype!” Castiel followed Dean outside.

“Stand back,” Dean warned. He held up a match. “Holy oil!”

Castiel nodded and took a cautious step back. But he drew near as it lit up. “That is brilliant! Human engineering is a thing to behold.”

“We try,” smiled Dean. “Hey, is that your sword?”

Castiel frowned at the katana in his hand. “This is odd. I do not think we are in danger.” He feinted with the sword, but flicked it a little too close to the holy oil fire.

“Oh!” said Dean. 

“I did not know it could do that,” said Castiel.

“Cool,” said Dean.

 

Gabriel looked upon the landscape and smiled. 

No one, no other living being, not for miles and miles.

Nothing but these crazy buttes and arches and whatever the hells they were, carved over millions of years by the unceasing wind.

Much as he currently thought his Father in heaven was a big dick, Gabriel had to admit: it was pretty cool. Way better than anything he had ever cooked up for one of his crazy dreamscapes.

A familiar voice was in his head, speaking Enochian. Gabriel nodded. Showtime.

Even though Sam had generously loaned him a few bottles of human painkillers, Gabriel knew this would hurt like hell. But he steeled himself. And true formed.

Hurt was not the word for it. He thought he would have been better off if those bastards had ripped out his wings. 

Well, he told himself, it meant that much less acting.

“Oh, look at me!” he wailed. “All alone, in the middle of this fucking desert, with not one, but two broken wings!”

And, just for emphasis, he gave his wings a flap.

And nearly passed out from the pain.

OK, Gabe, no more showing off he told himself.

He didn't have to wait long. There they were, two ungainly figures, fluttering towards him.

Like skyscrapers trying to fly, he thought.

“Hey, hurry it up. I haven't got all day!” he yelled at them.

“You won't escape this time,” puffed Aristakapha, the bigger one.

“Yeah, I might have to … walk really fast,” said Gabriel, pretending to look at his watch. As he was true formed, he didn't really have a watch, but he thought it was a good, snotty gesture.

“I will pluck his wings! I will get them good!” said Yetarel, who had taken the bait, and now was attempting to fly faster, which was only making him seem more like a Greyhound bus that had decided to take wing.

Gabriel yawned. Stretching hurt like the dickens, but he wanted to get these guys pissed. “Well, I'm gonna step out for coffee. You guys want anything?”

“We are your doom!” puffed Aristakapha.

They were about to land. Gabriel muttered something. It was in Enochian. Although it didn't really matter what he said, the word more or less translates as, “Now.”

There was a howl as the wind kicked up over the flat desert. The strong gust caught the two angels completely by surprise, and buffeted Aristakaha and Yetarel, blowing one off one way, and the other the opposite direction. 

Bird-like Yetarel ended up coming down with a thump in the middle of nowhere.

Furious and disoriented, he sprang to his clawed feet. And confronted an angel.

“You! I will take your wings! I will take them now!”

“You have tried twice before, and failed,” Castiel told him. “Why should you succeed now?”

“I will take them and I will have a snack. Yes I will.”

“Um. How exactly are you going to do that?” asked Castiel. He raised his arms. He was in his human vessel, which was, of course, wingless.

This threw Yetarel for a loop. “I will get your wings! I will have them with hot sauce! Or maybe wasabi!”

Castiel looked up at Yetarel, smiling and tilting his head. “OK,” he said amiably.

Yetarel whipped his tail in fury. He was hungry. “Then.... Then I will stomp you!” He raised a clawed foot to squash this annoying creature like a bug, but suddenly withdrew is foot, screaming in pain.

“You have a pointy!” he screeched, gesturing accusingly towards Castiel's sword. He hopped on one foot, cradling the other, wounded foot.

And then he screeched again as Castiel sent the katana into the back of his ankle, neatly slicing through the Achilles tendon. The wounded angel fell to the ground. He was in such pain he didn't feel the footsteps running up his body. He only drew back when he spotted Castiel standing on his chest, his sword pointed at one of Yetarel's eyes.

“If you would like to escape, Demon, now is your last chance,” Castiel told him.

Yetarel cracked open his beak, and a black smoke started to pour out as Yetarel's body spasmed.

Castiel, trying to keep his balance on the shaking angel, kept the sword pointed at Yetarel until the quaking stopped, and the last of the demon smoke had escaped. Then quick as a flash he hopped down and grabbed a flask from his overcoat. Using his magic to help, he ran in a circle around the big angel. And then he lit a match and hopped back. The holy oil ignited with a whoosh.

Yetarel stirred, emitting a moan. He sat up, switching his tail, which stirred too close to the holy oil. He whimpered, cradling the tail.

Good, the fire seemed to contain him.

Castiel paused for a moment, feeling light-headed. He had used of more of his grace than he had reckoned. But he was surely needed. He closed his eyes and got going.

 

“Mirror!” yelled Dean, diving in back of the Impala.

Sam held up the magic mirror again, and once again, Aristakapha ended up zapping himself with his magic.

“Boy, he is really stupid,” said Dean.

“Where the fuck is Cas?” asked Sam.

“I dunno. I hope he's OK.”

“I hope we're OK!” said Sam. They both ducked as the angel aimed another zap. It ended up impacting on the Impala's fender.

“God dammit!” said Dean, standing up. Sam pulled his belt and dragged him back down. “That won't polish out!” bitched Dean.

“Can you blow him away again?” asked Sam.

“I'm trying, but I think my kachina is out of juice.”

“How does a kachina run out of juice?”

_“I will squash you!”_

Sam and Dean whirled around. Somehow, the big angel had ended up in back of them.

“Shit,” said Dean.

“And then I will sup on you for breakfast!” vowed Aristakapha.

“How can you sup for breakfast?” asked Dean.

“Uh,” said the angel.

“Whaddya think you're doin', tall dark and gruesome?”

“Mamie?” asked Sam, for the ghost of Mamie LaRue was suddenly standing between them and the demonic angel.

“You stay away from my Sammy, you big palooka!” said Mamie.

“Who's gonna make me,” grumbled Aristakapha.

“Me!” said Mamie, who had suddenly grown as big as the angel. He stepped back, and she slugged him. 

“Ow!” yelled the angel. 

“Go, Mamie!” yelled Sam.

But because he was no gentleman, Aristakapha hauled off and hit her back, knocking her over.

“Mamie! No!” screamed Sam as suddenly, his magic mirror burst into a million pieces. Mamie disappeared.

But then Aristakapha screamed and fell over, his back bleeding from the stump of one of his big flight wings.

Castiel, his sword covered in blood, jumped off the angel's back. “You should never, ever hit a woman!” he scolded. “Sam, Dean! Get the tarp!”

Sam and Dean dove for the Impala's trunk, and then set to unrolling a large tarp on the desert floor. They heard Aristakapha's unholy scream once again as Castiel severed his other flight wing with another stroke of the sword.

“Go! Now!” Castiel yelled at the angel. “Or I'll have your other wings!”

As Castiel waved his sword, the angel, whimpering, crawled to the center of the tarp, upon which was painted a huge devil's trap.

“Get back, Cas!” said Dean.

Castiel jumped off the mat, and Dean threw a match. The edge of the tarp lit up with holy fire.

“Mobile angel's devil's trap!” said Dean, satisfied at his handiwork. “You think it'll work?”

“No idea,” sighed Castiel, who started to slump over. 

Dean reached over and caught him. “You OK, man?”

“Used up … a lot of grace. I'll be OK,” he said, righting himself. “We needed at least one of them still possessed. We need some answers. And I think this one is.... Well, he's slightly less stupid.”

“Fuck you!” yelled the big angel.

“All right, Aristakapha,” said Castiel. “You need to talk. Now.”

“Oh, fuck off,” sighed the wounded angel.

“In case this is of interest, this is my friend, Dean. He spent many centuries in hell. As a torturer.”

Aristakapha didn't answer, but seemed to shrink back.

“I can't go into the holy fire, but Dean can. And, one more thing, I've found a neat trick I can do with this sword.” He carefully put the tip of the katana into the holy fire.

The sword lit up.

Aristakapha squirmed.

“Now,” said Castiel. “Do you have anything you would like to tell us?”

 

It looked like a waiting room in any office building.

But it wasn't.

The office was in heaven.

“I need to see Mr. Zachariah. I do not have an appointment.”

“Mr. Zachariah is not in,” sniffed the receptionist, but Castiel ignored him, striding past with Gabriel at his side. Two rather large attendants attempted to bar the door, but Castiel smacked them both with a gesture, and then for an encore bashed the door open.

Zachariah was sitting behind the desk. He looked up cheerily, unflustered, as Castiel stormed in. 

“We need to talk, Zachariah.”

“Castiel. What a pleasant surprise. Oh, and Gabriel too. Long time no see, brother! I must get them to install a broken angel entrance, what do you think? That would be the PC thing to do?”

“Zachariah,” said Castiel. “How.... How could you? Your brothers and sisters?”

“I'm afraid I haven't any idea what you're talking about,” said Zachariah.

“Yadda yadda yadda,” said Gabriel, opening and closing his mouth like a hand. “Your little pets talked, Zach. They told us everything. They're as stupid as they are ugly.”

“Castiel,” said Zachariah. “You should understand. We need this! For too long, we've all lived under the domination of the archangels! We needed to even the odds. You know this!”

“So you unleashed … monsters!” asked Castiel

“And they were only the beginning,” smiled Zachariah. “A trial run, if you will.”

Castiel and Gabriel exchanged a glance. “You intend to make more? Zachariah, you can't control them! They kill our kin!”

“Necessary losses,” said Zachariah. “We can't let this stand in the way of progress. And once we have them in hand, we have nothing more to fear from the arches. We control the game board.”

“Zachariah, this is not a game! Are you going mad?” asked Castiel.

“Long gone, I'd say,” grumbled Gabriel.

“Abomination!” Zachariah spat at Gabriel.

“Sticks and stones,” said Gabriel.

“We will no longer live under your tyranny!” shouted Zacharial.

“You know, I could start taking this personally,” sighed Gabriel. 

“It's sad. So sad. They could have mended you, you know, Castiel. You could have been a soldier again.”

Castiel was silent. “You expected me.... No!”

Gabriel was now leaning over the desk, pulling Zachariah by the collar. “Mess with my little bro? Over my dead body, bud.”

“That,” grinned Zachariah, “can be arranged.”

And they were no longer standing in a facsimile of an office, but rather a wasteland.

“Boy, the lack of creativity is appalling,” sniffed Gabriel, who looked around, unimpressed. “Couldn't you have arranged the showdown to be in a fairgrounds? Or maybe during the running of the bulls at Pamplona!”

But Zachariah was no longer Zachariah, or at least his human self. He had true formed. He now towered over Castiel and Gabriel. “So,” tutted Zachariah. “Truly a shame neither of you may true form. If only you had come to me first.”

“I do not think that is entirely true,” said Castiel.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are only half right,” smiled Castiel.

“He means, eat shit and die, motherfucker,” said Gabriel.

Who was true formed.

Gabriel raised his flaming sword.

The fight wasn't a long one, nor was it terribly interesting. For as Gabriel was an ex-soldier of the Lord, and an archangel to boot, Zachariah had never been more than a heavenly bureaucrat. Zachariah very soon found himself beneath Gabriel's boot, a flaming sword at his throat.

“Gabriel,” said Castiel.

“Mercy!” pleaded Zachariah.

“Yeah, little bro?”

“His wings,” said Castiel.

“All of them?” grinned Gabriel.

“All of them,” said Castiel.

“No....” said Zachariah. And then he screamed.

 

The two angels reappeared back in Bobby’s wrecking yard.

Gabriel leaned back and opened his mouth. Suddenly a great deal of smoke poured out.

He gave a little burp, and the last bit of black smoke puffed out of his mouth. It consolidated into a very familiar ghostly form nearby. 

“Well. That was unpleasant,” sighed Crowley, adjusting his spirit’s lapels.

“Ew. Yuck!” said Gabriel, shivering dramatically. Crowley gave him a ghostly stink eye.

“So, that was heaven?” grumbled Crowley. “Little ratty around the edges, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. It’s our home, but it kinda sucks balls,” agreed Gabriel, hanging an arm around Castiel.

“We thank you for your assistance, Crowley,” said Castiel.

“Oh, I consider it a purely financial transaction,” grinned Crowley, holding up a handful of angel feathers. “You boys will do me a favor and not let on these are actually form some potty angel bureaucrat? Doesn’t sound terribly romantic, does it?”

“How is Aloysius?” asked Castiel.

“He will make a full recovery. And in the meantime, I have some tasty angel bones for him to snack on,” grinned Crowley. “You do not mess with a man's dog.”

“I will remember that,” promised Castiel.

“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I am inclined to get back to my host. I feel the need to fill it with much whiskey, to get the angel smell off. Could get me a bad reputation with my clients. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Gabriel. “I wanna take about sixteen showers, personally.”

“Hrm. Perhaps Sam Winchester is feeling sticky,” grinned Crowley, who, with a wink, disappeared.

Garbriel was laughing. “You might lay off on Sam,” said Castiel. 

“Aw, you get a Winchester, why don't I?”

“He is still upset over Mamie,” said Castiel shrewdly.

“Like I told you, I'll see what I can do.”

“You think you can actually un-break a mirror?”

“Hey, you don't spend centuries as a trickster without learning a thing or two. And Mamie was some broad.” He gave a low whistle. “I bet she was something when she was alive! Sorry we didn't hook up.”

Castiel shook his head.

“You guys are back?” asked Dean. “Did everything go OK?”

“We clipped Zach's wings, if that's what you're asking,” said Gabriel. “But if I know my brothers, he wasn't the only one involved in this.”

Castiel sighed and nodded. 

“So we're gonna have more monsters?” asked Dean.

“Well, not if our best buddy Death has anything to say about it,” grinned Gabriel.

“We visited Death in Chicago prior to our trip to heaven,” said Castiel. “He fed us pizza, and has now officially threatened to send his reapers after senior management if he hears any further reports of demonic angels,” said Castiel. 

“You don't mess with a man's dog. Or his reapers,” laughed Gabriel. He slapped Castiel's back and walked towards the house.

“You feel better now?” Dean asked Castiel.

“Angels,” grumbled Castiel. “Fucking angels! What the fuck do the fucking angels fucking think they’re fucking doing!” He hopped up to sit on the hood of the Impala.

“Cas,” laughed Dean. “It’s fine to curse, but you might wanna tone it down.”

“What I’ll do Dean, I’m going to have Bobby get his chainsaw. And then he can cut off my good wing. And we’ll sell it to Crowley. We’ll make a million dollars. And go into … the dry cleaning business! And, then I won’t be an angel. Any more. Fucking fucking fucking angels,” he added.

Dean smiled and pushed Cas' knees apart to he could stand directly in front of the angel. “Dry cleaning tycoons, huh?” Castiel looked woeful. “Come on, dude, do you really expect anything out of those guys any more?”

“He should have been around for us! Our Father! He should have taught us all to drive, and tune an engine so it will purr, and … and taught us about pigs in the blanket!” Castiel slumped. “We were not raised well.”

Dean leaned in and gently kissed Castiel.

“And. They only wanted me back … to turn me into one of those monsters,” said Castiel, shivering. 

“Really?” asked Dean.

“Really,” sighed Castiel. 

“Sam and I wouldn't have let that happen to you. You know that,” said Dean softly, running his hands along Castiel's thighs.

“I don't see how you could have prevented it!”

“Oh, you know. We're pretty resourceful. For humans,” grinned Dean.

“And I am worried about Gabriel,” Castiel confessed. “He was more gravely injured than I. He may yet recover, but it will take time.”

“If I know that guy, he'll spin shit into gold,” said Dean. “Hey, maybe we can get him to cook us lunch. You in the mood for burgers?” he asked, pulling at Castiel's tie.

“Yes, with a slice of cheese? A burgercheese?”

“Cheeseburger.”

“Yes. Cheeseburger.” 

“Don't worry, you'll get it,” grinned Dean, leaning over for another, longer kiss. 

“Oh, are we about to have sexual relations?” inquired Castiel.

Dean stifled a guffaw. “OK, Cas, not that I endorse this, but if you find yourself watching those DVDs with your brother again, you might wanna pick up on what they’re saying.”

Castiel considered. “Am I not voicing the correct sentiments?”

“No, you’re OK. It’s just….”

“Sir, I am not certain how I am going to pay for this pizza!”

Dean stared at Cas. “OK, OK bad idea. Hey,” he said, pulling back and eyeing the Impala. “You've never done it in the back seat, have you?”

“Done what? Oh! Ordered pizza,” Castiel colored.

Grinning, Dean leaned back and, grabbing Castiel by the waist, pulled him off the car. “Come on,” he said.

 

_And that's how our story ends: two boys in the back seat of a classic muscle car._

_But not quite...._

 

Dean nervously readjusted Castiel's tie for the fiftieth time.

“You guys ready to go?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Dean, still fussing over a Windsor knot. “Hey, hot damn, Bobby.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Bobby, who looked terribly fish-out-of-water-ish in a suit. “Can we go before I change my fucking mind.”

“Yes,” said Castiel. “Is my tie fastened to your satisfaction, Dean?”

Dean nodded. Castiel reached out his hands, and suddenly the party was in New York city, outside a bustling restaurant.

Dean leaned back and took in the neon sign, _Chez Malakim_. Castiel talked to the maitre d', who immediately ushered them inside, past several resentful-looking parties of glitterati in the waiting area.

“And it is said if you cast a glance in the mirror late at night, you might just catch the reflection of the storied actress, Mamie LaRue,” came a familiar voice.

“Hey, Crowley,” hailed Dean.

The demon made his apologies and headed over to greet the foursome. “I am supposed to be the silent partner in this enterprise, however, he seems to think the British accent classes up the joint. Humans can be appallingly shallow about such things.”

“You seem to be enjoyin' yourself,” said Bobby.

“All right. You have caught me,” admitted Crowley.

“Amazing what an angel wing will buy you,” said Dean, who was still looking around.

“Keep that in mind, Castiel,” Crowley told the angel, who shrugged.

“Hey, I'm totally sure I saw Mamie,” smiled Sam, pointing to the mirror.

“But, ah, here is the proprietor!” said Crowley.

“Oh, there you are!” sang Gabriel, who was wearing a chef’s white double-breasted jacket. He gave everybody a hug, including the rather reluctant Bobby, and added a pat on the butt for Sam. 

“Gabriel!” sighed Sam.

“Yeah, that's true, don't want Mamie to catch me,” winked Gabriel.

“So, how's the wings?” asked Bobby.

“They are actually healing up nicely,” said Gabriel.

“Oh, but you wanted to go ahead with this?” asked Dean.

“Bobby's fault. I found that I enjoy the hell out of cooking. And I enjoy yelling at chefs even more! Who would have thought a being who doesn't even need to eat? But you guys gotta check out the kitchen before we sit down. C'mon!”

He led them to the kitchen area, located behind a low wall so it was clearly visible to everyone dining there.

“Hey, you dumb fucks!” Gabriel yelled at the cooks. “You call that a line! Shape it up, bitches!”

“Yes chef.”

“Yes chef.”

Dean grinned at the line of cooks. There was a big one, and a tall one. He noticed the tall one had a pronounced limp. “So, you found an honest day's work for broken angels?” he asked Gabriel.

“Those stupid assholes love it here,” smiled Gabriel. “It's the perfect arrangement. They love abuse, and I love calling them out.”

“According to our interrogations,” said Castiel, “they were more sinned against, so to speak, than sinning. They had originally sustained injuries during the battle that proceeded Lucifer’s fall. And had been subjected to torture over the eons since.

“Zach promised them he’d release them if they’d let senior management implant the demons. The dick bag,” said Gabriel.

“And all this has nothing to do with you being a big old sentimental piece of crap, Gabe?” said Bobby.

“Don't let it get around,” sighed Gabriel. “But let's get you a table!” He beckoned to a waiter, who escorted them to a booth and handed out fancy tasseled menus.

“Hey, Castiel, I think you'd like this,” said Gabriel, pointing to an item on the menu. “I gotta go curse out some sous chefs. Catch you guys later.”

“The Shoebox Burger,” read Castiel. “'A patty of bovine meat to which cheese is affixed. Served with an appalling array of condiments.' Yes, this sounds perfect.”

“What?” asked Dean. “It doesn’t really say that, does it?”

“Yeah it does!” laughed Sam. 

“Yes, this is how one writes a menu. So it makes sense,” said Castiel.

“It's how angels write a menu,” grumbled Dean. “Nobody would ever eat anything any more.”

“Angels will eat,” Cas told Dean. “As long as there is blueberry syrup.”

“You can't put blueberry syrup on a cheeseburger!” protested Dean.

“Why the hell not,” laughed Bobby. “Ain't against the laws of physics.”

“I am exercising my free will to like blueberry syrup,” said Castiel.

“That is a gross misuse of free will!” protested Dean. But he was interrupted by the arrival of the first bottle of champagne, and so occupied much of his time that evening attempting to get a certain blueberry-syrup-liking angel good and drunk.


End file.
